THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE    ROLL-CALL 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 

GEORGE    JOHNSON. 


PHILAD  ELPHI A: 

J.    B.   LIPPINCOTT   &    CO. 
1876. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875,  by 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   &   CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


PS 


PREFACE. 


IT  was  the  intention  of  my  dear  husband  to  have 
published  a  little  volume  of  poems  appropriate  in  gen 
eral  to  the  Centennial,  but  he  being  called  to  the 
Higher  Life  before  its  completion,  I  have  endeavored 
so  far  as  practicable  to  carry  out  his  plan  concerning 
it.  A  number  of  poems  intended  especially  for  this 
work  not  having  been  completed,  I  have  thought  best 
to  introduce  some  of  his  earlier  productions,  which  I 
trust  will  prove  acceptable.  Hoping  the  public  will  be 
lenient  to  all  errors  they  may  discover,  I  venture  to 
send  it  forth. 

M.  S.  J. 

BUCKS  Co.,  PA.,  October,  1875. 


759406 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Roll-Call  of  the  Old  Thirteen 9 

Ode.     For  July  4th,  1876 16 

America  to  England  on  the  Occasion  of  the  Centennial,  1876     20 

1776.     Independence  Hall.     1876.     An  Ode  for  the  Centen 
nial  23 

Song.     Written  for  the  Occasion  of  the  Celebration  of  the 
One  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Boston  Tea-Party 

The  Voices  of  the  Clocks 

At  Washington's  Crossing      ...... 

Song :  The  Old-Fashioned  Fireplace  ; 

Song  of  the  City 

Song  of  the  Telegraph  ...... 

The  Slave  Auction-Bell 

The  Centenarian 

The  Story  of  the  Pine  ....... 

Sixty-Eight  and  Sixty-Nine  ....... 

The  Cheerful  Slave •       . 

Perplexed     . 

Gentle  Rain 

Faces  at  the  Window    .         .         .         .         . 

To-Day 

I*  5 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 7& 

Still  Young 79 

To  One  Departed 82 

The  Grass 83 

Harvest-Time 87 

Summer  Hymn 89 

Tohickon 92 

A  Day  in  October        ........       96 

Indian  Summer  .........       98 

The  Frost 99 

The  Ice-King     .         .         . 102 

The  Winter  Night  and  the  Summer  Noon   ....     106 

The  Stream  of  the  Valley  .         .         .         .         .         .         .108 

The  Land  of  Nevermore     .         .         .         .         .         .         .no 

The  Mystery 113 

Is  the  World  Old  or  Young?       .          ..        .         .          .          .116 

At  the  Metropolis  •.         .         .         .         .         .         .         .118 

Onward!    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .120 

The  Wave 122 

Life  through  Death 125 

Lines  on  a  Skull          ........     127 

The  Blue  Coat  and  the  Gray.     A  Ballad  of  the  Rebellion  .     129 

The  Promise .         .         .133 

The  Victory  Month — July,  1863.         .....     140 

My  Country        .........      144 

The  Virginia  Homestead 146 

Break  the  News  Gently       .         .         .         .         .  .150 

Their  Graves      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .152 

Slavery 154 

Lincoln  Monument     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .156 


CONTENTS. 


7 


PAGE 

After  the  War     .         .         .         .         .         .                  .         .  157 

Contrasts     . 162 

The  Nameless  Grave ....    .  165 

The  Old  Mill 167 

Only  a  Little  While    .         . 170 

Work          .         . 172 

A  Rhyme  of  Cheer 173 

The  World  and  I 174 

"  Home  and  Abroad"          .         .         .         .         .         .         .176 

Flowers  of  Palestine  .         . 178 

Down  by  the  Mill .179 

The  Ruined  Home 180 

The  Lost  Ship 183 

Silenced 186 

"  Bury  me  in  the  Sunshine"        .         ...         .         .         .  187 

Tears .189 

The  Weeping  Child 191 

The  Summer-Tim  e  is  Over          .     • 193 

Faith  and  Love 194 

The  Angel  of  Sunset 195 

Never  Again       .........  196 

Rest-Song 197 


THE  ROLL-CALL  OF  THE  OLD 
THIRTEEN. 

i. 

A  VOICE  from  a  mountain  height, 
As  sweet  as  an  air  in  June, 
As  solemn  as  the  sea, — 
A  voice  not  in  the  night, 

But  the  near  and  naked  noon. 

What  shall  the  answer  be  ? 
Listen  and  look  and  lean, 
Tremble  and  be  afraid, 
Answer,  Old  Thirteen  ! 

For  to  you  the  call  is  made. 

•4 
II. 

MASSACHUSETTS  : 
I  hear  the  voice  and  I  know ; 
Liberty,  can  it  be  said 

I  was  faithless  to  thee  and  to  law? 
I  am  here  as  I  was  long  ago, 
Here  with  my  living  and  dead. 
Not  with  an  oath  and  its  awe 

2  9 


10 


THE   ROLL-CALL    OF 

Would  I  say  I  did  my  best 

In  the  service  of  freedom  and  truth ; 
But  look  at  the  scars  on  my  breast 

And  the  hope  in  the  hearts  of  my  youth  ! 

in. 
NEW  HAMPSHIRE  : 

Show  me  thy  glorious  face, 

Goddess  that  callest  to  me. 

Sweet  spirit !  let  me  be  cheered — 
But  no, — in  the  freedom-blessed  race 

Whose  homes  on  my  granite  are  reared, 

Thy  features  reflected  I  see. 
"  Here!"  is  my  answer  for  them 

When  Right  for  their  service  shall  call ; 
The  flood  of  the  fight  they  would  stem 

Till  slaughter  had  swallowed  them  all. 

IV. 

CONNECTICUT  : 

Here,  with  the  flag  of  thy  stars, 

The  red  and  the  white  and  the  blue, 

Held  in  my  hand  and  my  heart, 
Stricken  with  shot  through  and  through. 
To  shield  it  I  did  my  part 


THE    OLD    THIRTEEN.  u 

When  thunder  and  battle-blast 

Swept  round  it  like  prairie  flame ; 
But  what  is  past  is  past, — 

The  glory  is  more  than  the  shame. 

v. 
RHODE  ISLAND  : 

They  smile  at  me  since  I  am  least, 

But  the  burden  I  share  with  the  whole. 

If  I  honor  the  work  that  I  do 
Am  I  worthy  to  sit  at  the  feast 

With  the  rich  and  the  great, — since  the  true 

Stature  of  man  is  the  soul  ? 
I  heard  the  wail  and  the  call 

Of  the  perishing  land  in  her  woes ; 
I  gave  her  my  little,  my  all ; 

Perhaps  'twas  that  saved  her, — who  knows? 

VI. 

NEW  YORK: 

If  empire  chiefly  I  sought, 
Prosperity,  honors,  and  ease, 

Surely  it  cannot  be  said 
After  the  years  I  have  wrought, 
I  languish  for  lack  of  these, 

Or  for  promise  of  power  ahead. 


I2  THE   ROLL-CALL    OF 

Loyal  and  loving  I  stand ; 

And  were  I  queen  of  the  earth, 
What,  I  would  ask,  is  a  land 

Without  order  and  liberty  worth? 

VII. 

PENNSYLVANIA  : 

As  after  the  storm-cloud's  march, 

Broad  in  the  beamy  blue, 

Iris  spans  valley  and  hill, 
So  shines  the  ocean-shored  arch, 

Built  in  the  world's  wide  view, 

And  I  am  its  keystone  still. 
Green  are  my  heart  and  my  hills, 

And  as  fresh  as  the  water  that  runs 
In  the  mossy  pipes  of  my  rills 

Are  the  fervor  and  faith  of  my  sons. 

VIII. 

NEW  JERSEY  : 

Still  on  my  soil  are  the  stains 
That  were  left  by  patriots'  feet, 

Sore  after  battle  and  rout ; 
Not  all  the  century's  rains, 

Not  all  the  snows  that  have  beat, 
Have  washed  them  entirely  out. 


THE    OL  D    THIR  TEEN. 

Elsewhere  'neath  battle-trod  earth 
Count  I  the  graves  of  my  lost. 

Know  I  not  liberty's  worth, 
Purchased  at  such  a  cost  ? 

IX. 

MARYLAND  : 

Blandished  and  tempted  and  torn, 

Caught  in  the  whirlwind  of  war, 

In  the  mazes  of  dreams  that  were  lies, 
A  light  that  was  not  of  the  morn 

Flashed  from  a  perilous  shore, 

Blazed  on  and  blinded  mine  eyes. 
Like  a  star  on  heaven's  blue  brink, 

I  was  ready  to  chaos  to  fall ; 
I  wavered,  but  did  not  sink, — 

Thank  God !  I  can  answer  the  call. 

x. 

DELAWARE  : 

With  the  terrible  tread  of  War 
The  continent  shaking  I  heard, 

In  the  shadow  of  thunder  I  lay 
Watching  the  fight  from  afar. 
At  last  a  song  like  a  bird ! 
At  last  a  light  like  a  star  ! 


THE   ROLL-CALL    OF 

Then  I  opened  my  eyes  on  the  war ; 

The  red  lightnings  paused  in  their  play, 
And  brighter  than  ever  before 

Shone  the  promise  of  permanent  day. 

XI. 

VIRGINIA  : 

I  stand  not  where  once  I  stood. 

Scathe  me  in  annal  and  verse, 

Tell  my  whole  story  of  shame  : 
Say  that  I  bargained  in  blood, 

Was  kind  to  a  palpable  curse, — 

Where  is  my  once  white  name  ? 
But  something  comes  up  with  the  tide, 

Wide  blown  as  the  breaths  of  the  sea, — 
A  newer  and  better  pride 

That  hints  of  a  glory  to  be. 

XII.  * 

NORTH  CAROLINA: 

Goddess,  what  have  I  to  show 
As  harvest  of  rich  ye"ars  of  time? 

Here  liberty  early  abode  ; 
I  promised  thee  fair  long  ago, 

But  I  shared  in  the  popular  crime, 
And  later  I  reaped  as  I  sowed. 


THE    OLD    THIRTEEN. 

But  give  me  a  place  in  the  line, 
The  years  of  the  future  are  long ; 

I  will  walk  in  the  light  of  the  sign, — 
Of  the  sign  of  the  sinking  of  wrong. 

XIII. 

SOUTH  CAROLINA  : 

Vanquished,  but  guilty  no  less, 

Bowing  my  heart  and  my  head, 

Here  am  I,  ashamed  in  the  light ; 
Saved  from  disastrous  success, 

Ghosts  of  armies  of  dead 

Haunt  me  by  day  and  by  night. 
And  yet  what  I  did  I  did; 

As  ye  will  interpret  my  tears. 
Can  the  shame  of  a  crime  be  hid 

After  a  thousand  years? 

XIV. 

GEORGIA: 

Am  I  last  to  answer  the  call  ? 
Here,  by  my  sister's  side, 

I  ask,  is  there  pardon  for  me  ? 
Had  we  compassed  the  Union's  fall 

'Twere  well  with  my  dead  to  have  died, 
Or  that  I  were  sunk  in  the  sea. 


l6  ODE. 

But  the  tempest  of  battle  is  o'er, 
The  sky  shows  its  blue  serene, 

And  we  count  in  the  heavens  once  more 
The  stars  of  the  Old  Thirteen  ! 


ODE. 

FOR   JULY   4TH,    1876. 
I. 

IT  comes  !  the  expected  day, 
Blissful  in  every  ray. 

Put  all  annoy 
And  selfish  care  away. 
The  summer  land  lies  fair, 
Nature  with  us  doth  share 

The  general  joy. 

n. 

A  hundred  years  have  gone 
Since  freedom's  cloudy  dawn 

Burst  into  day ; 
Its  sun  is  rolling  on 
Through  free,  rejoicing  skies, 
And  in  our  joy  we  rise 

As  free  as  they ! 


ODE. 


Cities  and  peaceful  farms! 
TV  occasion's  sweet  alarms 

Your  rest  shall  break  ; 
'Tis  no  wild  call  to  arms ; 
To  hail  with  patriot  pride 
This  glad  centennial  tide, 

Awake  !  awake  ! 

IV. 

Ye  mountains,  stand  and  be 
Types  of  the  liberty 

That  now  is  ours ; 
As  firmly  stand  may  we. 
Ye  prairies,  glad  and  green, 
Toss  in  your  varied  sheen, 

Like  seas  of  flowers  ! 

» 

v. 

Rejoice,  ye  conscious  trees ! 
Concordant  with  the  breeze, 

Your  branches  wide 
Wave  in  its  airy  seas. 
Old  Ocean,  roll  and  roar 
The  green  length  of  your  shore 

In  solemn  pride. 


1 8  ODE. 

VI. 


Rivers!  rejoicing  run, 
Like  silver  in  the  sun, 

Ye  sea-like  deeps ! 
The  anthem  is  begun ; 
A  murmur  like  the  main 
Add  to  the  growing  strain 

That  o'er  you  sweeps  ! 

VII. 

The  banners,  bright  as  bloom, - 
The  thunder,  boom  on  boom,- 

The  festal  fires 
That  shall  the  street  illume, 
Blazing  as  if  they  knew 
Their  glare  prolongs  the  view, 

As  day  expires, — 

> 

VIII. 

The  steeple's  lifted  bell,— 
Music's  exultant  swell, — 

The  clang  and  call, — 
The  people's  joy  these  tell; 
But  note  not  it  alone, — 
A  solemn  undertone 

Runs  through  it  all. 


ODE. 

IX. 

They  feel — they  deeply  feel 
Their  country's  woe  and  weal 

Dates  fresh  to-day, 
As  reverently  they  kneel 
To  take  the  mighty  trust 
Which  Thou,  Great  Sovereign,  dost 

Upon  them  lay. 

x. 

God  of  the  nations,  Thou 
To  whom  all  earth  doth  bow, 

Where  shall  we  stand 
A  hundred  years  from  now? 
A  thousand  ? — Old  as  Rome, 
Will  Freedom  still  her  home 

Have  in  our  land  ? 

XI. 

Teach  us,  teach  us  to  be 
As  worthy  to  be  free 

As  were  our  sires  ; 
Then  shall  the  future  see, 
Burning  on  all  our  heights, 
Freedom's  unlessened  lights 

And  virginal  fires  1 


20  AMERICA    TO  ENGLAND. 


AMERICA   TO    ENGLAND   ON   THE 
OCCASION  OF  THE  CENTENNIAL, 

1876. 

WELCOME  to  thee,  our  mother-guest ! 

The  child  advanced  to  manhood's  claim, 
Though  parted  from  the  parent  breast 

Knows  whence  it  came. 

The  tie  of  blood  is  close  and  strong, 
We  cannot  break  it  if  we  would. 

Kin  knoweth  kin,  though  oft  and  long 
Misunderstood. 

We  once  were  foes,  but  better  days 
Dawn  o'er  the  darkness  and  the  ill. 

We  loved  thee  once ;   and,  to  our  praise, 
We  love  thee  still. 

Dear  mother-country  !  yes,  oh,  yes, 
It  is  thy  child  that  to  thee  speaks, 

A  good  will  striving  to  express, 
Like  that  it  seeks. 


AMERICA    TO  ENGLAND.  2i 

Though  'tween  us,  stormy,  dark,  and  wide, 

The  waters  of  an  ocean  run, 
Who  shall  our  histories  divide? 

The  two  are  one  ! 

Our  English  tongue, — it  is  a  sign 
That  shows  how  close  we  are  to  thee. 

Our  rise  was  thine,  our  progress  thine, 
Our  fall  would  be. 

We  share  thy  glory  and  thy  shame, 
All  thou  hast  lost,  all  thou  hast  won ; 

With  knightly  Sidney's  twine  the  name 
Of  Washington. 

So  through  the  long  illustrious  list 

Of  names  wide  given  to  renown, 
Laurels  with  laurels  intertwist 

From  Chaucer  down. 

Great  Shakspeare's  fame  and  Runnymede, — 
We  think  of  these  as  half  our  own, — 

And  Cromwell,  whose  red,  daring  deed 
Smote  king  and  throne. 

Art  thou  unwilling  we  should  claim 

So  large  a  portion  of  thy  past  ? 
If  then  thy  own,  our  final  fame 

Grows  even  more  vast. 

* 

3 


22  AMERICA    TO  ENGLAND. 

Time  will  remember  whence  we  bring 
The  strength  that  gathers  like  a  sea, 

And  proudly  will  its  parent  spring 
Be  traced  to  thee. 

Freedom  and  love  of  freedom — both 

d 

Carne  to  us  from  thine  own  estate. 
And  now  our  hundred  years  of  growth 
We  celebrate. 

An  honored  guest,  behold  the  land 
Nature  and  God  so  amply  bless, 

The  elements  of  empire  grand 
That  we  possess. 

Our  institutions,  systems,  aims, 
All  that  we  are  or  hope  to  be, 

To  worth  their  weak  or  powerful  claims 
Come  close  to  see. 

Behold  us  !  and  with  kindly  eyes, 

Forgiving  faults  thou  canst  but  mark ; 

Too  long  our  mutual  sympathies 
Have  lain  in  dark. 

That  we  have  passed  the  unjust  sneer 
Upon  each  other  each  will  own ; 

Bold  censure,  glad  to  be  severe, 
We  both  have  known. 


1776.      INDEPENDENCE  HALL.      1876.  23 

The  critic's  is  a  dangerous  art, 

And  whe.n  it  prides  itself  to  pain 
And  raise  a  rancor  in  the  heart, 

Whose  is  the  gain  ? 

Nations — great  nations,  too — may  be 

As  petty  as  the  private  mind, 
To  hate  and  groundless  jealousy 

Meanly  inclined. 

Our  lower  instincts  scorning  then, 

As  Christian  nations  let  us  act, 
Till  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men" 

Become  a  fact. 


1776.        INDEPENDENCE    HALL.        1876. 

AN  ODE  FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL. 
I. 

OLD  HALL,  we  give  thee  greeting 

From  continent  and  isle ; 
The  centuries  are  meeting 
Above  thine  honored  pile. 
Broad  to  the  skies 
Our  glad  land  lies, 
Basking  in  Freedom's  smile. 


24  I776.      INDEPENDENCE   HALL.     1876. 

II. 

What  memories  throng  upon  us, 

Richer  than  Runnymede  ! 
A  hundred  years  have  shown  us 
The  value  of  the  seed 
Our  fathers  sowed 
In  tears  and  blood, — 
Ay,  Time  approves  the  deed. 

in. 

That  glorious  Declaration, 

Old  Hall,  from  thee  went  forth  ; 
Within  thy  walls  the  nation 
Had  its  triumphant  birth. 
No  place  to  fame 
Has  greater  claim, 
Thou  classic  spot  of  earth  ! 

IV. 

Long,  long  within  the  steeple 

The  bell  had  silent  hung ; 
Below,  the  waiting  people 
Listened  to  hear  its  tongue. 
Hark !  ne'er  before 
On  any  shore 
•  So  glad  a  peal  was  rung  ! 


1776.     INDEPENDENCE  HALL.     1876.  25 

V. 

The  summer- vault  of  heaven 

Could  not  contain  the  sound, 
The  continents  were  riven 
To  their  remotest  bound. 
'Twas  not  alone 
The  Bell's  glad  tone,— 
God's  voice  was  in  the  sound  ! 

VI. 

Dead  as  the  dust  of  Edom 

Old  nations  long  had  lain  ; 
That  mighty  peal  of  freedom 
Roused  them  to  life  again. 
From  living  graves, 
No  longer  slaves, 
They  rose  once  more  to  reign  ! 

VII. 

"Men  are  created  equal;" 

'Twas  a  simple  thing  to  say, 
But  a  dark  and  bloody  sequel 
Was  dated  from  that  day, 
When  infant  right 
And  giant  might 
Engaged  in  desperate  fray. 


26  I776-     INDEPENDENCE  HALL.     1876. 

VIII. 

The  end  was  greater  glory 

Than  the  sword  has  often  won. 
We  know  the  starry  story 

Of  what  was  dared  and  done  ; 
And  thou,  old  Hall, 
Dost  best  recall 
The  dawn  of  Freedom's  sun. 

IX. 

Those  beams  of  blessing  on  us 

A  hundred  years  have  shone  ; 
The  rights  our  fathers  won  us, 
Secure,  are  still  our  own. 
My  land  !  arise 
And  recognize 
The  favors  thou  hast  known  ! 

x. 

Grateful  and  glad  thy  voicing 
By  every  hearth  should  fall ; 
But  centre  thy  rejoicing 
Around  the  grand  old  Hall. 
Welcome  them  here 
From  far  and  near, 
The  friendly  nations  all. 


1776.     INDEPENDENCE   HALL.     1876.  27 

XI. 

Fling  out  the  flag  and  pennon, 

The  festal  scene  to  grace ; 
Let  the  unshotted  cannon 
Thunder  its  solemn  bass, 
While  band  and  bell 
The  rapture  swell, 
And  joy  lights  every  face. 

XII. 

Let  Industry,  displaying 

Her  varied  triumphs,  stand 
Crowned  in  our  midst,  surveying 
Her  good  work  in  the  land, — 
Her  rich  increase, 
While  Power  and  Peace 

• 

Attend  her,  hand  in  hand. 

XIII. 

Glad  sight !     Old  Hall,  repeated 

May  it  for  ages  be, 
Unless,  of  Freedom  cheated, 
We  fall,  perhaps  ere  thee. 
No,  no  ;  our  land 
Still  strong  must  stand, 
An  Empire  of  the  Free ! 


28  THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 

XIV. 

Yet  Freedom's  favor  waneth 

Where  greed  takes  foremost  place ; 
As  sovereign  she  reigneth 
With  an  exacting  grace ; 
She  will  not  stay 
Where  men  decay, 
But  loves  a  virtuous  race. 


SONG. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  ONE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  BOSTON 
TEA-PARTY. 

SAID  royal  George,  "  My  subjects  thrive, 

My  subjects  o'er  the  sea ; 
Cannot  my  ministers  contrive 

Their  thrift  shall  prosper  me  ? 
Few  men  drink  wine,  but  all  drink  tea, — 

A  tax  on  it  I'll  lay; 
For  our  good  use  none  will  refuse 

So  small  a  sum  to  pay." 
And  soon  in  fact  the  royal  act 

Was  sent  across  the  sea ; 
So,  Betty,  fill  the  kettle  up, 

We'll  all  take  tea. 


THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 

But,  sooth  to.  say,  the  king's  desire 

Did  not  approval  find  ; 
His  free-born  subjects  rose  in  ire" 

And  plainly  spoke  their  mind  : 
"If  prince  or  peer  tax  what  we  drink 

And  never  ask  our  leave, 
Then  what  we  eat,  we  can  but  think, 

Will  next  their  care  receive." 
Cold  and  black  shall  hang  the  rack, 

The  urn  shall  empty  be ; 
So,  Betty,  take  the  kettle  off, 

We  won't  drink  tea. 

All  royal  England  could  not  stir 

The  people  from  their  way ; 
Tea-parties  grew  unpopular, 

Save  one — in  Boston  Bay ! 
Oh,  matchless  men  were  those  of  yore  ! 

As  chainless  as  the  sea," 
And  every  cup  to-night  we  pour 

Shall  in  their  honor  be. 
The  tyrant's  yoke  for  us  they  broke, — 

The  cup  we  drink  is  free ; 
So,  Betty,  fill  the  kettle  up, 

We'll  all  drink  tea. 


29 


3o  THE    VOICES   OF  THE    CLOCKS. 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  CLOCKS. 


FROM  parlor  and  hall 

I  heard  the  clocks  call, — 

The  new  and  the  old. 

The  hour,  lone  and  late, 

By  both  was  just  told. 

Within  was  soft  light 
From  the  low-burning  grate  ; 

Outside  was  the  night 
And  the  iron-like  cold. 

n. 

No  star  dared  to  wink ; 
No  sound  save  the  clink 
Now  and  then  of  a  coal ; 
No  footstep,  nor  stir ; 
The  house  held  its  breath, 

And  over  me  stole 
A  sense  as  of  death, — 
Of  a  presence  to  which 
All  life  did  defer, 


THE    VOICES   OF  THE    CLOCKS. 

And  whose  shadow  o'ercast 

My  soul  with  a  pall, 
As  if  I  and  the  vast 

Lonely  darkness  were  all. 

in. 

Then  the  clocks  each  to  each, 
In  unusual  speech, 

Called  through  the  dim  air. 
With  a  stern,  stately  stroke 
The  old  clock  first  spoke 

From  its  niche  on  the  stair. 

I  pictured  it  there, 
Like  a  monk  cloaked  and  tall, 

With  its  great,  grave  face 

And  the  coffin-like  case, 
Standing  straight  'gainst  the  wall. 

"Alas!  alas!"  it  said, 
"The  best  of  life  has  fled, 
The  dear  old  days  are  dead, 

And  come  no  more. 
Mournful  I  keep  my  trust, 
The  bloom  has  died  to  dust, 
The  red  has  changed  to  rust, 

So  bright  before. 


31 


32 


THE    VOICES   OF   THE    CLOCKS. 

"Time's  weary  sentinel, 
Long  have  I  stood  to  tell 
The  household  'All  is  well,1 

With  Time  at  least. 
Often  my  mournful  stroke 
The  funeral  silence  broke  ; 
Again  it  gladly  spoke 

The  wedding  feast. 

"But  in  this  mansion  proud, 
My  tick  once  clear  and  loud, 
(How  fast  the  moments  crowd 

It  to  the  worst !) 
After  so  many  years 
Sounds  like  the  fall  of  tears, — 
Alas !  where  are  the  ears 

That  heard  it  first  ? 


"Oh,  generations  dead  ! 
Oh,  forms  and  faces  fled  ! 
How  full  has  death  been  fed 

On  your  decay  ! 
And  what  remainetfr  now? 
The  silence  and  the  snow, — 
But  tell  me,  who  art  thou 

That  seem'st  so  gay  ?'.' 


T.HE  VOICES  OF  THE  CLOCKS. 

A  chime  rang  silvery  low. 
Above  the  marbly  glow 
(Like  rose-light  upon  snow) 

A  face  was  seen. 
The  ormolu  shone  bright, 
The  costly  malachite 
Flashed  back  a  mingled  light 

Of  gold  and  green. 

The  bronze  deer  stood  in  grace 
A-top  the  ebony  case  ; 
An  almost  human  face 

Beamed  tranquil  there, 
By  marble  darkness  bound. 
Again  that  silvery  sound 
Plashed  in  the  lake-like  round 

Of  the  still  air. 

It  said:  "  How  sad  thy  tone, 
Old  friend,  that  there  alone 
Dost  stand  and  make  thy  moan  ! 

My  tuneful  tongue 
Shall  cheer  this  sombre  room  ; 
This  firelight  shines  like  .bloom; 
/do  not  feel  the  gloom." 

"  No  ;  thou  art  young." 
4 


33 


34  THE    VOICES   OF  THE    CLOCKS. 

"  Dark  lies  the  frost-locked  ground, 
But  through  the  blue  profound 
The  sun  doth  keep  his  round ; 

His  golden  keys 
Shall  ope  the  earth  again 
To  the  renewing,  rain, 
Why,  then,  dost  thou  complain 

Of  hours  like  these?" 

"  'Tis  not,"  the  sad  voice  said, 
"Because  the  spring  is  dead, 
And  summer's  sweetness  fled, 

I  sorrow  so ; 
Nature  I  still  can  trust ; 
The  dead  rose  from  the  dust 
Will  rise  again,  and  must, 

When  June  airs  blow. 

"But  there  are  sadder  things 
Than  wasting  winter  brings, — 
A  chill  that  deeper  stings 

Than  white-fanged  frost. 
Sweet  rains  from  warm  clouds  poured 
Shall  green  again  the  sward, 
But  when  shall  be  restored 

What  Love  has  lost  ? 


THE    VOICES   OF   THE    CLOCKS. 

"  For  me  this  very  night 
A  century  ends  its  flight, 
And  thoughts  come  like  a  blight 

My  spirit  o'er; 
For,  thinking  of  the  past, 
I  see,  as  if  forecast, 
The  future,  vague  and  vast, 

Gloom  up  before." 

"  The  future  !"  raptly  cried 
The  young  voice  at  my  side  ; 
"/hail  its  coming  tide, 

Its  rising  roar. 

Clouds  it  will  bring,  I  know, 
But,  like  their  billowy  flow 
In  spring,  when  south  winds  blow, 

How  rich  its  store  ! 

"Above  its  shadowy  drift 
The  peaks  of  promise  lift, 
With  here  a  rosy  rift 

And  there  a  blue." 
The  voice  spoke  from  the  stair : 
"  Oh,  thou  dost  paint  it  fair, 
But  long  it  cannot  wear 

Such  heavenly  hue." 


35 


THE    VOICES    OF  THE    CLOCKS. 

The  other,  in  reply, 

Said  :   "  Must  I,  then,  deny 

The  beauty  I  descry  ? 

Must  I,  like  thee, 
Forego  the  prospect  fair? 
Shape  the  delicious  air 
To  tempest-beatings,  where 

Mad  ruin  shall  be?" 

The  answer  was  :   "  No,  no  ; 
Thou  need'st  not  think  it  so. 
I  only  sought  to  show 

The  temperate  truth. 
This  earthly  life  of  ours 
Is  not  made  up  of  flowers, 
Of  sunny  scenes  and  hours, 

Of  warmth  and  youth. 

"  At  first  so  fair  it  seems, 

The  young  heart  dreams  and  dreams, 

But  wakes  to  find  the  beams 

It  loved  withdrawn. 
Blight  falleth  on  the  bloom, 
The  air,  once  all  perfume, 
Grows  thick  with  thunderous  gloom, 

And  age  steals  on." 


THE    VOICES   OF  THE    CLOCKS. 

Then  said,  in  saddened  tone, 
The  other  :    "  Thou  hast  grown 
Old  at  the  post,  and  known 

All  this  to  be. 
If  all  our  hopes  are  lies, 
If  evening  her  tired  eyes 
Must  always  close  with  sighs 

On  misery; 

"  Surely  it  then  were  best 
For  all  things  to  have  rest, 
Close  sunken  on  earth's  breast, 

No  more  to  rise. 
Why  should  the  roses  bloom, 
If  but  across  the  tomb 
To  waft  their  lost  perfume 

'Neath  mocking  skies?" 

"Forgive  my  mournful  mood. 
More  lightly  than  I  should," 
The  old  clock  said,  "the  good 

Of  life  I  scan. 
Let  me  destroy  no  cheer, 
But  ever  hold  more  dear 
The  spirit  needed  here 

So  much  by  man  : 

4* 


37 


THE    VOICES   OF  THE    CLOCKS. 

"A  patient  heart  to  wait, 

Ready  for  any  fate, 

With  gladness  not  too  great, 

Nor  too  subdued. 
Doing  life's  earnest  work, 
Too  brave  to  pause  or  shirk, 
Whether  the  skies  be  murk 

Or  rosy-hued." 


Then  merrily  through  the  listening  air, 
From  the  mantel  and  the  stair, 

Called  the  clocks  together. 
The  gaining  day  leaned  toward  the  light, 
Faint  star-points  pierced  the  pall  of  night, 
The  inside  cheer  soon  put  to  flight 

The  thoughts  of  winter  weather. 

II. 

Half  dreaming  that  I  had  not  dreamed, 
So  real  had  the  voices  seemed, 

I  rose  and  crossed  the  hall-way. 
Each  pendulum-pulse  in  concord  beat, 
Sad  age  had  felt  youth's  influence  sweet, 
And  cooled  in  turn  the  latter's  heat ; 

And  so  it  should  be  ahvay. 

December  15,  1874. 


AT   WASHINGTON'S  CROSSING. 


AT    WASHINGTON'S    CROSSING. 

O'ER  the  river  brightly  flowing, 
O'er  the  green-shored  Delaware, 

And  the  landscape  golden-glowing, 
Swept  the  warm,  wide  waves  of  air. 

'Twas  the  teeming  time  of  summer; 

All  the  land  was  full  of  cheer, 
Wind  and  stream  in  mingled  murmur 

Poured  their  cool  sound  on  my  ear. 

By  an  old  oak  shut  and  shaded 

From  the  vast  exterior  day, 
All  the  present  from  me  faded 

As  upon  that  shore  I  lay. 

'Twas  a  classic  shore,  for  yonder, 
Just  across  the  bright  blue  tide, 

Where  the  heavy  train  in  thunder 
Rushes  by  the  valley's  side, 

Once  a  little  patriot  army 

Pressed  with  painful,  eager  tramp, 

Through  the  freezing  night  and  stormy, 
Toward  the  sleeping  Hessian  camp. 


39 


AT   WASHINGTON'S  CROSSING. 

Aye,  a  scene  rose  up  before  me, 

Darkly  changed  from  this  of  light, - 

Not  the  summer  noon  was  o'er  me, 
But  the  frigid  winter  night. 

To  essay  the  perilous  crossing 
Gathered  here  that  hero  band. 

'Mid  the  ice  their  frail  boats,  tossing, 
Struggle  for  the  hostile  land. 

Oh,  the  toil,  the  cold,  the  danger  ! 

Freemen,  do  you  think  of  these  ? 
Do  you  e'er  in  fancy  change  your 

Homes  of  peace  and  beds  of  ease 

For  the  dark  and  frowning  river? 

For  the  sore  march  and  the  fray? 
For  the  cold  whose  icy  quiver 

Cuts  the  glow  of  life  away? 

The  remembrance  fondly  cherish 
Of  the  men  none  could  enslave, 

For  a  nation  can  but  perish 

That  forgets  its  good  and  brave. 


THE    OLD-FASHIONED  FIREPLACE. 


SONG:    THE    OLD-FASHIONED    FIRE 
PLACE. 

i. 

THE  old,  old-fashioned  fireplace  ! 

Ah  !  it  has  had  its  day, 
And  the  old,  old-fashioned  dwellers, 

They,  too,  have  passed  away. 
No  more  the  wood-fire  flashes 

The  country  hearth  upon, — 
Ashes,  ashes,  ashes ! 

The  past  is  dead  and  gone. 
But  something  of  its  mettle 

Is  welded  with  our  lives  ; 
And  the  singing  of  the  kettle 

Its  memory  revives. 

ii. 

We  see  the  homely  grouping 

Around  the  settler's  hearth  : 
The  grandsire  gray  and  stooping, 

And  almost  done  with  earth  ; 
The  grandma  at  her  knitting, 

The  children  strong  and  tall, 


42  THE    OLD-FASHIONED    FIREPLACE. 

And  flitting,  flitting,  flitting 
Against  the  chimney-wall, 

The  glow  that  lights  their  faces, — 
The  pure,  fresh,  living  flame, — 

Oh  !  it  was  from  such  places 
The  strength  of  freedom  came  ! 

III. 

The  old,  old-fashioned  fireplace  ! 

We  have  no  need  to-day 
To  build  its  wide  volcanic  top 

To  give  our  hearth-fires  play. 
But  we  have  need  still  longer 

Our  sires  to  emulate, 
Stronger,  stronger,  stronger 

To  build  both  home  and  state. 
With  all  that  we  inherit, 

That  the  fruitful  present  bears, 
Say,  can  we  show  a  spirit 

That  can  fully  match  with  theirs? 

IV. 

The  old,  old-fashioned  fireplace  ! 

It  was  a  roaring  sight 
To  see  the  sparks  like  fire-flies 

Shoot  upward  through  the  night. 


THE    OLD-FASHIONED  FIREPLACE. 

If  Winter,  the  old  stormer, 

Raised  a  louder  din, 
Warmer,  warmer,  warmer 

Glowed  the  hearts  within. 
Young  hope  and  faith  and  fervor  ! 

Oh  !  these  lift  up  a  land, 
And  well  her  sons  will  serve  her 

If  these  she  can  command. 

v. 

The  old,  old-fashioned  fireplace  ! 

We  seem  to  feel  its  blaze 
Burn  through  the  vanished  winters 

And  light  our  later  days. 
Oh,  cheeks  so  bright  and  blushing  ! 

Your  bloom  has  done  away  ; 
But  we  feel  your  warm  blood  rushing 

Along  our  veins  to-day. 
The  grateful  heart  remembers 

What  idle  hearts  forget ; 
We  feel  the  glorious  embers 

Of  the  past  are  living  yet. 


43 


44  SONG    OF  THE   CITY. 


SONG    OF    THE    CITY. 

OH,  the  heart  with  its  merciless  beat  ! 

And  its  rivers  of  red  that  run  ! 
Oh,  the  brain  with  its  haste  and  heat ! 

I  am  heart  and  brain  in  one. 
As  the  waves  of  mind's  mystical  sea 

Flow  ever  from  pole  to  pole, 
So  the  currents  of  life  in  me, 

For  I  am  its  centre  and  soul. 

When  earth  for  the  first  was  green 

In  the  eyes  of  the  children  of  men, 
They  gave  me  the  title  of  Queen, 

And  mine  it  has  been  since  then. 
Mine,  with  few  to  divide 

The  honors  of  empire  with  me, 
For  my  rule  as  the  earth  is  as  wide, 

My  strength  as  the  strength  of  the  sea. 

The  tramp  of  the  train  on  the  shore, 
The  tremble  and  trill  of  the  wire, 

The  pant  of  the  piston,  the  roar 
Of  furnace  and  forge  all  a-fire, 


SONG    OF  THE   CITY. 

The  smoke-drift  afloat  on  the  air, 
The  shimmer  of  sails  on  the  sea, — 

What  are  they  but  signs  that  declare 
The  world  is  still  toiling  for  me  ? 

The  mountains  with  riches  are  stored, 

The  soil  with  its  harvests, — for  me 
Their  tribute  and  treasure  are  poured, 

As  rivers  are  poured  to  the  sea. 
In  my  close  and  passionate  life 

I  dream,  and  I  dream  of  peace, 
Yet  I  grow  more  in  love  with  a  strife 

That  I  know  can  never  cease. 

The  sounds  of  my  splendid  unrest 

They  woo  with  a  magical  power, 
And  I  gather  the  brightest  and  best 

Around  me  to  flourish  and  flower, — 
And  t6  fall,  you  may  say.     Ah  !  yes ; 

Alas  for  the  souls  that  go  down, 
The  brave  and  the  brilliant  no  less 

Than  the  thousands  unasking  renown  ! 


45 


46  SONG    OF   THE    TELEGRAPH. 


SONG    OF    THE    TELEGRAPH. 

MEN  praised  in  the  long  ago 
That  fiery  courser,  the  Sun  ; 

Now  his  golden  car  is  slow 
And  Time  itself  outrun. 

For  the  live  electric  fire, 

Behold  !  is  tamed  and  taught ; 

On  my  trilling  tracks  of  wire 

It  flies  with  the  speed  of  thought. 

Steam  is  a  panting  hack, 
Toiling  with  fettered  heels ; 

I  flit  to  his  goal  and  back 

In  a  single  roll  of  his  wheels. 

Farewell  to  the  lagging  breeze  ! 

In  the  calms  of  night  it  drops, 
While,  flashing  under  the  seas 

And  over  the  mountain-tops, 

My  starry  words  I  wing 

Along  the  nerve-like  wire, 
That  thrills  like  a  conscious  thing 

To  my  flying  touch  of  fire. 


SONG    OF  THE    TELEGRAPH. 

Zone  unto  zone  I  bind, 

Tropic  to  polar  shore  ; 
And  the  nations  shout  to  find 

That  distance  is  no  more. 

From  me  the  soul  a  hint 

Receives  of  its  future  powers, 

As  the  dawning's  sanguine  glint 
Foretells  noon's  riper  hours. 

I  am  the  wildest  dream 

That  ever  to  fact  was  wrought ; 
In  me  a  closer  gleam 

Of  the  infinite  is  caught. 

My  glory  and  renown 

An  age  triumphant  sings, — 

I  am  the  star  and  crown 
Of  brain-created  things. 

Yet  not  the  lowly  grass 

Nor  the  humbler  dust  I  scorn, 
For  I  know  the  mighty  mass 

Of  the  universe  was  born 

Each  part  with  an  equal  claim 
To  the  thoughtful  mind's  regard 


47 


48  THE   SLAVE  AUCTION-BELL. 

No  more  my  subtle  flame 

Than  the  rock  so  dull  and  hard. 

There  is  a  mystic  tie 

That  doth  all  things  unite  : 

The  soul  that  cannot  die 

With  those  of  sense  and  sight. 

The  skies  that  o'er  earth  span 
Are  kin  to  her  own  green  sod. 

There's  divinity  in  man 
And  humanity  in  God  ! 


THE    SLAVE    AU  CTIO  N  -BE  LL. 

(In  the  town  of  Beaufort,  North  Carolina,  a  large  bell  that  before 
the  war  was  used  to  call  buyers  to  slave  auctions  was  afterwards  hung 
in  a  building  occupied  by  a  colored  school,  and  employed  to  call  the 
children  to  their  studies.) 

IN  the  town  the  bell  was  hung, 

And  it  rung 

From  its  iron  lips,  year  by  year, 
Not  a  peaceful  call  to  prayer 

On  the  air, 
For  the  worshipful  to  hear ; 


THE   SLAVE  AUCTION-BELL. 

Not  a  clamorous  peal  of  war, 
Telling  that  to  waste  their  shore 

Came  some  foeman  bold, 
But  a  call  that  terror  gave 
Only  to  the  shackled  slave, 

Waiting  to  be  sold. 

To  the  poor  slave-mother's  breast 

Closer  pressed 

Was  her  trembling  child  in  fear, 
As  that  bell  with  heavy  stroke 

Harshly  spoke 

That  the  parting  hour  was  near. 
Lowly  bosoms  heaved  with  sighs, 
Eyes  looked  sadly  into  eyes 

Nevermore  to  meet  again, 
As  that  sad  sound,  ringing  high, 
Wronged  the  free,  rejoicing  sky, 
And  the  people  came  to  buy — 

Buy  their  fellow-men  ! 

Error  cannot  always  last; 

Battle-blast 

Swept  the  hoary  curse  away. 
There's  a  gladder  tale  to  tell, — 

Hear  the  bell 
As  it  rings  and  swings  to-day  : 


49 


THE   SLAVE  AUCTION-BELL. 

"Ye,  who  once  like  beasts  were  bought, 
Come  as  freemen  to  be  taught.      * 
From  your  long,  dark  ignorance 
In  the  blessed  light  advance 

Of  the  school. 

Right  has  triumphed,  Right  is  strong, 
And  the  iron  hand  of  Wrong 

Cannot  rule." 

Thus  with  fine  poetic  force 

Does  the  course 
Of  great  evil  sometimes  end. 
Sometimes  from  the  very  stones 
Freedom's  sweet-awakened  tones 

Do  ascend. 
Masters !  tyrants  !  mark  it  well, — 

In  some  hour 

Voices  wherewith  you  proclaim 
Your  defenseless  fellows'  shame, 
May  in  turn  pronounce  the  knell 

Of  your  power ! 


THE    CENTENARIAN. 


THE    CENTENARIAN. 

HE  sits  by  his  Northern  hearth  to-day, 

Far  from  the  noise  of  the  red  frontiers ; 
An  old,  old  man  whose  few  locks  are  gray 

With  the  frosts  of  a  hundred  years. 
His  aged  face  is  wrinkled  and  wan, 

And  the  blood  in  his  veins  is  thin  and  cold, 
But  his  soul  is  that  of  the  strong,  brave  man, 

And  his  heart  is  not  yet  old. 

Ere  the  land  that  we  now  bless  as  our  own 

Took  its  place  'mid  the  nations  of  earth, 
And  our  beautiful  flag  to  the  wind  was  thrown, 

He  had  his  wildwood  birth. 
.From  the  humble  door  of  the  pioneer 

He  first  looked  up  to  the  smilfng  sun, 
And  the  first  loud  sound  that  fell  on  his  ear 

Was  the  crack  of  the  hunter's  gun. 

Oh  !  a  ruder  cradle  you  seldom  will  see 

Than  that  which  was  rocked  by  the  settler's  fire, 

And  never  a  bolder  lad  than  he, — 
The  son  of  the  settler  sire  ! 


t;  2  THE    CENTENARIAN. 

His  hair  was  like  night,  his  cheek  like  morn, 
His  form  like  his  father's,  straight  and  tall, 

And  his  voice  as  mellow  as  that  of  the  horn 
Sounding  the  hunter's  call. 

To  him  oft,  when  the  blast  howled  through  the  trees 

And  the  chimney  wall  was  ruddy  with  flame, 
Had  the  tale  been  told,  how  over  the  seas 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  came. 
And  many  another  tale  he  had  learned 

Of  what  men  for  freedom's  sweet  sake  will  do, 
Till  deep  in  his  bosom's  core  there  burned 

A  hate  for  the  tyrant  crew. 

"  Oh,  pa !"  asked  the  boy  once  when  he  had  mused 

O'er  a  story  of  people  who  filled  bondmen's  graves, 
"  Do  you  think  like  them  we'll  ever  be  used, — 

Oh,  pa  !  will  -we  ever  be  slaves? 
You  say  that  our  rulers  grow  crueler  each  day 

And  will  not  be  warned;  will  they  crush  us?"  he  said. 
"  Ah,  boy  !"  spoke  the  sire  as  he  put  him  away, 

"  I  fear  there  are  storms  ahead." 

And  soon  did  the  tempest-cloud  blacken  the  air, 
And  wider  and  fiercer  it  swept  on  its  path  ; 

The  people  had  borne  all  that  freemen  could  bear, 
And  now  they  arose  in  their  wrath. 


THE    CENTENARIAN. 


53 


They  spurned  and  they  trampled  the  English  laws, 
And  felt  it  a  better  and  nobler  thing 

To  fight  and  to  fall  in  Liberty's  cause 
Than  cringe  to  the  English  king. 

And  the  young  lad  heard  the  proud  news  told 

Of  Lexington's  long-remembered  fray, 
Ere  the  blood  of  the  slain  was  scarce  yet  cold 

And  the  deed  but  yesterday. 
Then  wilder  the  tap  of  the  rallying  drum 

Rolled  over  the  arming,  desperate  land, 
And  he  saw  in  hot  haste  from  the  furrow  come 

Brave  Putnam  and  his  band. 

They  called  to  his  father  as  by  him  they  spurred, 

Who  turned  from  the  work  he  had  just  begun — 
His  soul  all  on  fire  with  the  tidings  he  heard — 

And  went  to  the  house  for  his  gun. 
Then  the  boy  smothered  down  his  few  faint  fears, 

And  eagerly  asked  if  he  might  go 
Along  with  the  rest  of  the  volunteers 

And  fight  the  British  foe. 

But  the  father  only  proudly  smiled 

As  he  gazed  in  those  eyes  so  clearly  blue, 

Kissed  warmer  the  lips  of  his  wife  and  child, 
And  bade  them  both  adieu ; 


54  THE   CENTENARIAN. 

Then  northward  marched  to  share  the  renown 

.  Of  Ticonderoga's  deed  of  fame, 
Where  the  flag  of  the  British  fort  came  down 
"  In  the  great  Jehovah's  name  !" 

In  a  score  of  fights  he  took  full  part 

As  those  terrible  years  of  strife  wore  on, 
Then  a  bullet  was  sent  to  the  patriot's  heart, 

And  the  patriot's  life  was  gone. 
Then  the  boy,  who  was  now  a  strong  youth  grown, 

Wiped  the  tear-drops  hot  from  his  mother's  face, 
Took  the  dead  one's  rifle  and  cloak  as  his  own, 

And  stood  in  the  father's  place. 

At  Yorktown  he  toiled  in  the  grim  redoubt, 

Where  the  shot  and  the  shell  in  fury  poured, 
Till  he  saw  O'Hara  march  humbly  out 

And  give  up  his  chieftain's  sword. 
Then  the  stars  of  peace,  with  a  holy  flush, 

To  the  thunder-filled  sky  the  soldier  saw  come, 
And  the  foe,  from  the  men  they  could  not  crush, 

Slunk  back  to  their  island  home. 

Oh,  then  was  the  long,  long  woe  repaid  ! 

The  oppressor's  might  could  not  prevail; 
The  right  and  the  wrong  God's  hand  had  weighed, 

And  the  right  had  turned  the  scale  ! 


THE    CENTENARIAN. 


55 


Oh  !  grandly  the  breast  of  the  youth  would  heave 
As  he  thought  of  that  glorious  victory-hour, 

And  trod  the  soil  he  had  helped  retrieve 
From  the  haughty  despot's  power  ! 

The  years  rolled  on,  till  across  the  main 

The  host  of  the  Briton  came  once  more, 
When  he  shouldered  his  musket  and  hurried  again 

To  strike  for  his  native  shore. 
On  Niagara's  field  and  at  Chippewa 

He  saw  the  lines  of  the  red-coats  break, 
And  with  Macomb  gallantly  fought  one  day 

At  Plattsburg  by  the  lake. 

The  enemy,  humbled  on  plain  and  tide, 
Their  sails  soon  set  to  the  western  breeze, 

And,  broken  once  more  in  their  strength  and  pride, 
Sped  over  the  distant  seas. 

The  years  rolled  on,  and  star  after  star 
Blazed  out  on  our  banner's  azure  hue, 

Till  the  State  that  was  born  'mid  the  thunders  of  war 

To  a  mighty  nation  grew. 

• 

Still  the  old  man  lived,  though  one  by,  one 
His  comrades,  hoary  and  honored  and  blessed, 

Drew  their  hands  away  from  their  labors  done, 
And  went  to  their  happy  rest. 


6  THE    CENTENARIAN. 

Still  the  old  man  lived ;  till  the  traitor's  blade 
Struck  deep  at  the  nation's  honor  and  life, 

And  the  armies  of  treason  against  us  arrayed 
Rushed  on  to  the  dreadful  strife. 

And  now,  as  he  thinks  of  these  stormy  days, 

A  shade,  as  of  doubt,  oft  crosses  his  brow ; 
But  he  smiles  it  away,  and  often  says 

'Tis  grand  to  be  living  now. 
He  mourns  for  the  dear  lives  daily  lost, 

For  the  desolate  homes  and  the  bitter  woe, 
But  he  feels  that  the  prize  is  worth  the  cost, 

Fearful  it  be  although. 

As  sure  as  the  sunshine  follows  the  rain, 

And  stars  shine  out  from  their  depths  of  blue, 

He  says  that  our  country  will  stand  strong  again 
If  we  are  watchful  and  true. 

And  he  often  prays,  if  it  only  might  be 
That  the  lamp  of  his  life  may  not  go  out 

Till  Peace  has  smiled  on  us,  and  he  lived  to  see 

The  end  of  this  trouble  and  doubt. 

>* 

November,  1864. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PINE. 


57 


THE    STORY    OF    THE    PINE. 

THE  fairest  of  the  forest  forms, 

The  loftiest  of  its  line, 
The  loudest  of  the  winter's  storms, 

Thus  spoke  the  ancient  Pine : 

"  When  first  I  reared  my  infant  head 

Cannot  with  truth  be  told, 
But  often  have  I  heard  it  said 

I  am  a  century  old. 

"  And  surely  since  upon  the  beach 

I  broke  the  emerald  moss, 
The  changes  I  have  seen  would  reach 

A  hundred  years  across. 

"  Never  the  lightning-stroke  has  rent 
My  boughs  nor  scorched  my  grain  ; 

And  kindly  Heaven  has  always  sent 
The  dew  and  vital  rain. 

"Oh,  oft  with  joy  have  I  the  fierce 
And  flashing  tempest  met, 
6 


THE   STORY  OF  THE  PINE. 

Or  felt  my  strong  roots  slowly  pierce 
The  dark  earth  deeper  yet. 

"For  does  all  conscious  joy  belong 

To  human  forms  alone  ? 
Have  I  not  senses  fine  and  strong, 

Perhaps,  as  are  your  own  ? 

"Am  I  a  dull,  unknowing  thing, 
When  'neath  the  uncovered  sky 

I  feel  the  tingling  tides  of  spring 
Within  me  mounting  high? 

"Or  when  my  branches,  shower-wet, 

The  sudden  sunlight  strikes, 
Or  when  the  winter  rain  has  set 

Them  thick  with  silver  spikes? 

"  Oh,  I  have  loved  the  lonely  wild; 

There  all  was  fresh  and  free, 
The  birds  that  sang,  the  flowers  that  smiled, 

Though  I  was  but  a  tree. 

"  When  many  a  day  had  passed  away, 

One  morn  a  settler  came, 
And  cruelly  felled  my  brother  trees, 

But  left  me  still  the  same. 


THE   STORY  OF  THE  PINE. 

'•  Within  my  green  protecting  shade, 
With  sweet,  wild  water  nigh, 

His  humble  home  of  logs  he  made, 
O'er  which  I  towered  high. 

"And  when  with  weary  limbs  at  e'en 
He  sought  his  welcome  bed, 

A  king  had  seldom  slept,  J  ween, 
With  loftier  roof  o'erhead. 

"I  watched  him  at  his  cheerful  toil 

Till  plenty  flowed  about ; 
A  lusty  life  was  in  the  soil 

His  touch  brought  blooming  out. 

"He  was  a  worthy  man,  I  thought, 

And  I  had  heard  him  say 
How  for  his  country  he  had  fought 

On  many  a  bloody  day. 

"At  summer  noon,  oft  in  my  shade, 

His  children  by  his  side, 
He  went  once  more  his  marches  o'er 

With  all  a  soldier's  pride. 

"And  now  the  soil  he  trod  was  free, 
Though  ridged  with  patriots'  graves. 


59 


60  THE   STORY  OF  THE  PINE. 

Strange  that  a  land  so  won  could  be 
The  home,  alas  !  of  slaves. 

"  The  years  rolled  on,  the  cot  was  gone, 

A  mansion  took  its  place ; 
The  aged  settler  near  it  slept, 

The  sod  above  his  face. 

* 
"  The  wild  deer  came  to  drink  no  more 

By  moonlight  from  the  lake  ; 
The  wolf  had  sought  a  wilder  shore, 

The  panther  left  the  brake. 

"  Where  the  wide  forest  used  to  be, 
Now  flowed  the  yellow  wheat, 

And  wave  on  wave  its  saffron  sea 
Broke  gently  at  my  feet. 

"A  monster,  breathing  fire  and  steam, 
Now  often  crossed  the  plain 

Swift  as  the  wind, — the  iron  dream 
Of  some  mechanic  brain. 

"Another,  breathed  with  fiercer  fire, 

Upon  the. lake  went  by; 
And  later,  lines  of  trilling  wire 

Were  ruled  along  the  sky. 


THE   STORY  OF  THE    PINE.  6r 

"Alas,  I  sighed,  for  what  has  been, 

And  what  no  more  shall  be  ! 
But  still  the  tide  of  life  rolled  in, 

Resistless  as  the  sea. 

"To  sudden  empire,  rich  and  great, 

The  brave  young  nation  grew'; 
Star  after  star,  each  star  a  State, 

Shone  on  her  banner's  blue. 

"  A  city  by  each  ocean's  side 

She  seated,  like  a  queen  ; 
And  others  by  her  brineless  seas 

And  on  her  prairies  green. 

"  But  now  a  cry  of  treason  rose, 

And  skies  no  more  were  fair  ; 
A  gloom,  a  chill,  a  threat  of  ill 

Were  in  the  uneasy  air. 

"  Woe  to  that  land  and  to  that  race, 

Though  fortune  long  be  kind, 
Where  Glory  holds  the  foremost  place 

While  Justice  hides  behind  ! 

As  some  hot  cloud  that,  far  away, 
Gathers  in  gloom  and  strength, 
6* 


62  THE  STORY  OF   THE   PINE. 

Thunders  and  threatens  all  the  day, 
And  furious  comes  at  length, 

"  So  o'er  a  nation  foul  with  wrong — 

A  country  slavery-cursed — 
The  cloud  of  war  that  threatened  long 

With  earthquake-fury  burst. 

"  Oh  !  speak  not  of  that  dreadful  spring, 

Name  not  its  fears  again, 
For  even  Nature  failed  to  bring 

Her  usual  gladness  then. 

"The  only  and  the  anxious  thought 

Was  of  the  rising  war ; 
The  bloom  and  brightness  that  she  brought 

Rejoiced  the  world  no  more. 

"  Enough  to  know  that  they  whose  blood 
Was  poured  like  summer  rain, 

Whose  graves  are  thick  in  field  and  wood, 
Have  perished  not  in  vain. 

"  Thy  winds,  O  Freedom  !  blown  to-day 
From  mountain-tops  or  waves, 

Nowhere,  with  joy  I  hear  them  say, 
Become  the  breath  of  slaves  ! 


SIXTY-EIGHT  AND   SIXTY-NINE.  63 

"  Was  it  this  happy  end  to  see 

That  Heaven  delayed  my  fall  ? 
Hail,  liberal  land  !  where  all  are  free, 

Are  free  and  equal  all ! 

"Let  some  resistless  wind  advance, 

Or  'gainst  my  top  so  high 
The  lightning  break  its  fiery  lance,- — 

I'm  ready  now  to  die." 

But  still,  firm-rooted  in  the  land, 

With  branches  waving  wide, 
The  old  Pine  towers  green  and  grand 

Its  native  lake  beside. 


SIXTY-EIGHT    AND    SIXTY-NINE. 

(IN  THE  MANNER  OF  PRAED.) 
"There  is  no  new  thing,  my  friend." — CHARLES  DlX. 

THE  sun  is  faithful  to  the  sky : 
He  brings  the  promised  morrow ; 

The  midnight  saw  the  Old  Year  die, 
And  no  one  seems  to  sorrow. 

The  old  man  rises  with  a  sigh, 
But  age  and  ache  give  warning; 


64  SIXTY-EIGHT  AND  SIXTY-NINE. 

The  youth  is  glad,  he  knows  not  why, 

To  meet  the  New  Year  morning. 
Ah  !  birth  is  new,  and  death  is  old, 

The  greater  rules  the  lesser ; 
And  he  who  lieth  dumb  and  cold 

Hath  left  a  brave  successor. 
So. let  the  dead  Year  lie  in  state, 

We  court  the  next  in  line: 
The  world  is  done  with  Sixty-eight 

And  ready  for  Sixty-nine. 

There  are  some  men  to  whom  a  sigh 

Is  sweeter  sound  than  laughter, 
And  some  so  dull  that  when  they  die 

Care  not  if  joy  live  after. 
They  grieve  that  earth  will  warm  with  spring, 

While  they  are  growing  colder, 
And  would  not  have  one  lovely  thing 

Exist  if  they  must  moulder. 
But  he  would  scorn  the  selfish  throng, 

The  Year  so  generous-hearted, 
And  would  not  have  us  mourn  too  long 

O'er  things  that  have  departed. 
"Away  !  away  !"  would  the  Old  Year  say, 

"  Night  and  the  grave  are  mine." 
Then  leave  the  silent  Sixty-eight 

For  the  living  Sixty-nine. 


SIXTY-EIGHT  AND   SIXTY^NINE.  65 

And  so  we  seek,  in  the  world's  wide  track, 

The  fields  our  feet  are  worn  to, 
And  drop  out  sentiment,  and  go  back 

To  the  matters  we  were  born  to. 
And  many  will  feel,  and  some  will  say, 

To  self  if  not  each  other, 
How  dreadfully,  in  a  general  way,      , 

One  year  is  like  another  ! 
What  will  be  has  already  been  : 

Politics  to  satiety, 
With  an  earthquake  or  a  war  thrown  in 

To  make  up  a  variety ; 
Mosquitoes  early,  and  house-flies  late, 

With  the  same  old  sun  to  shine, — 
We  must  take  the  old  of  Sixty-eight 

For  the  new  of  Sixty-nine. 

Death  will  hurry  his  millions  off, 

And  Life  produce  them  faster  j 
And  every  mail  will  bring  its  tale 

Of  changes  and  disaster. 
Thieves  will  steal,  and  banks  will  break, 

And  murders  be  committed  ; 
Small  rogues  be  punished  for  justice'  sake, 

And  greater  ones  acquitted. 
Of  shipwrecks  there  will  be  no  lack, 

Nor  of  floods  and  conflagrations, 


66  SIXTY-EIGHT  AND  SIXTY-NINE. 

And  railway  trains  will  leave  the  track, 

With  the  usual  aggravations. 
And  all  that  happens,  and  much  that  don't, 

In  many  a  startling  line, 
Will  the  press  relate,  as  in  Sixty-eight, 

For  the  readers  of  Sixty-nine. 

"Bulls"  and  "bears"  will  throng  the  town, 

With  looks  now  bright,  now  pallid, 
And  gold  go  up,  and  gold  go  down, 

Like  "the  world"  in  Kingsley's  ballad. 
Courtships  will  go  on,  of  course, 

And  Tom  outrival  Harry  ; 
Last  year's  married  seek  divorce. 

And  last  year's  lovers  marry. 
The  exquisite  will  wear  his  "tights," 

And  the  laborer  his  patches, 
And  Congress  may  take,  for  the  latter's  sake, 

The  heavy  tax  off  matches. 
The  Grecian  Bend  perhaps  will  end, 

And  relieve  the  human  spine ; 
But  follies  as  great  as  of  Sixty-eight 

We  shall  see  in  Sixty-nine. 

The  papers  of  the  growing  grain 
Trite  prophecies  will  utter, 


SIXTY-EIGHT  AND   SIXTY-NINE.  67 

And  buyers  another  year  complain 

Of  the  shocking  price  of  butter. 
And  people  will  love  dearly  still 

Their  neighbors'  faults  to  mention, 
And  think  too  much  of  others'  sins 

To  give  their  own  attention  ; 
A'hd  o'er  and  o'er  a  sinner's  fall 

Will  tell  with  such  a  spirit, 
You're  forced  to  think  that,  after  all, 

They're  rather  pleased  to  hear  it. 
Let  sages  frown  and  preachers  prate, 

Alas  !  we're  not  divine, 
And  the  human  nature  of  Sixty-eight 

Will  flourish  in  Sixty-nine. 

It  is  not  things,  but  we,  that  change, — 

Not  always  for  the  better. 
Perhaps  the  spirit's  wider  range 

Is  free  from  fall  and  fetter. 
Our  earth-life  is  a  restless  chase; 

With  faltering  feet  or  steady 
We  hasten  to  that  silent  place 

The  year  has  reached  already. 
But  love  will  ever  conquer  fear, 

Joy  quite  forsake  us  never; 
Some  blessed  hope  is  always  near, 

Some  good  remains  forever. 


68  THE   CHEERFUL   SLAVE. 

So,  "with  a  heart  for  any  fate," 
We  join  Life's  marching  line, 

With  a  last  good-by  to  Sixty-eight 
And  a  cheer  for  Sixty-nine. 


THE    CHEERFUL    SLAVE. 

i. 

BOUND  !  bound  ! 
Gold  is  king  ; 
Gold  is  king, 
And  long  been  crowned, 
Silver  is  an 
Honored  peer; 
I  a  base 
Plebeian  thing, 
All  ungifted 
With  the  grace 
Of  prince  or  lord  ; 
All  unworthy 
To  come  near, 
Save  when  lifted 
From  my  poor 
State  obscure, 


THE    CHEERFUL   SLAVE.  69 

With  no  odor 
Of  the  boor, 
As  the  Sword 
I  dare  appear. 

ii. 

Toil!  toil! 
Day  and  night, 
In  the  sea 
And  in  the  soil, 
While  those  honored 
Idlers  lie, 
Undefiled 

And  fair  and  bright, 
Scorning  as  I 
Pass  them  by, 
Plodding  in  my 
Peasant  plight. 
Humbly,  illy 
I  compare 
With  their  proud 
Patrician  air. 


in. 

Servant,  slave, 
Yet  friend  of  all, 

7 


7o  PERPLEXED. 


Few  such  service 

Ever  gave 

As  I  give 

In  hut  and  hall, — 

Give  and  ever 

Give,  though  small 

Be  my  pay 

In  thought  or  thank. 

'Tis  enough 

For  me  to  live, 

Kingly  only 

In  my  uses, 

In  the  good 

My  life  diffuses. 

So,  content, 

I  take  my  rank. 


PERPLEXED. 

DESPITE  of  good  and  gain, 

Our  human  doubts  remain, 

And  even  dare  arraign 
The  Great  Goodness  in  an  unholy  light. 

Such  doubts,  come  over  me ; 

I  look  around  and  see 
Things  that  I  can  but  question, — "Are  they  right?" 


PERPLEXED.  7I 

No  voice  replies  from  out  the  silences, 
And  further  doubt  my  only  answer  is. 

The  world  seems  full  of.  wrong ; 

The  weak  obey  the  strong  ; 

Rights,  that  to  men  belong 
As  sactedly  as  love  belongs  to  God, 

Power's  ruthless  bands  invade, 

And  men  once  free  are  made 
Lowly  obedient  to  the  tyrant's  nod. 
Thou  sayest,  Lord,  that  vengeance  rests  with  Thee ; 
Then  why  so  oft  goes  the  oppressor  free  ? 

The  rich  have  wealth  increased  ; 

And  foremost  at  the  feast 

Sit  those  who  gathered  least 
Through  all  the  busy  summer's  heat  and  dust. 

The  peasant,  whose  sad  toil 

Secured  the  harvest  spoil, 
Stands  humbly  waiting  for  the  broken  crust ; 
And  when  the  revel  of  his  lord  is  o'er, 
Receives  his  mite,  nor  dares  to  ask  for  more. 

Has  good  its  sure  reward  ? 
In  strife  'gainst  error's  sword 
Truth's  champions  have  poured 
Their  reddest  blood  in  vainest  offering  ; 


f2  GENTLE  RAIN. 

And  Time's  best  age  has  seen 

Man's  fellow,  poor  and  mean, 

Scourged,  bleeding,  bound, — a  toiling,  groaning  thing 
Yet  lands  that  bind  and  lands  that  break  the  chain 
Have  equal  blessing  of  the  sun  and  rain. 

The  dust  of  strife  surrounds, 

And  from  its  gloom  resounds 
The  noise  of  Life's  great  conflict,  loud  and  nigh ; 

"  God  helps  the  weaker  side  !" 

"  Oh  !  then,  why  does  He  hide 
The  signs  of  its  sure  triumphing?"  I  cry. 
A  whisper  caught  from  the  swift  winds  that  passed, 
Made  sweetest  answer  to  my  listening  ear: 
"Be  still,  sad  heart ;  all  things  shall  be  made  clear 

At  last,  at  last." 


GENTLE    RAIN. 

AND  thou  hast  come  once  more 
To  bless  us,  gentle  rain  ! 

From  yonder  cloudy  shore 
Thy  light  wave  rolls  again. 

Earth's  high  blue  roof  till  now 
Seemed  blazing  all  about, 


GENTLE   RAIN.  73 

Fired  by  the  sun  !  but  thou 
Hast  put  the  wide  flames  out. 

With  the  fierce  pomp  of  storm 

Thou  art  not  rushing  nigh  ; 
No  thunders  loud  alarm, 

Closed  is  the  lightning's  eye. 

His  song  th'  unfrightened  bird 

Still  pours  in  yonder  tree, 
Whose  dripping  leaves  are  stirred 

Less  by  the  wind  than  thee. 

Adown  the  dimming  sky 

The  cooled  delicious  day 
Sinks  softly  as  a  sigh, 

And  still  thy  small  drops  play. 

i 
This  is  my  dream  of  death, — 

After  the  glare  and  heat, 
A  gently  failing  breath, 

Calmed  and  content  and  sweet. 

And  some  delicious  sound, 

Like  thine,  sweet  rain,  to  fill 
My  ear  before  the  round 

Of  life  shall  stand  quite  still. 

7* 


74 


FACES  A T   THE    WINDOW. 

Then  I  would  close  mine  eyes, 
Sure  that  the  dawn  would  be 

Fair  as  to-morrow's  skies 
Shall  witness,  after  thee  ! 


FACES    AT    THE    WINDOW. 

IN  quiet  village  or  noisy  town, 

I  love,  as  I  wander  through  streets  and  lanes, 
When  day  is  up  or  when  night  is  down, 

To  watch  the  faces  that  come  to  the  panes, 
By  windows  of  houses  high  and  grand, 
By  those  of  the  humblest  in  the  land, — 
The  lordly  home  of  the  millionaire, 

And  the  dark  abodes  of  shame  and  sin, 
Seldom  I  pass  that  I  do  not  care 

To  see  what  faces  may  be  within. 

Some  look  out  so  happy  and  round, 

Some  so  wan  and  haggard  and  wild ; 
I  wonder  if  ever  the  first  have  frowned, 
And  if  the  others  have  ever  smiled. 
Ah  !  wonderful  faces  I  often  meet 
In  my  portrait-gallery  of  the  street ; 
Some  with  brows  like  an  open  book, 

Whose  thoughts  you  can  read  like  the  printed  page, 


FACES  AT  THE    WINDOW. 

And  one,  wrinkled  and  old,  with  a  look 
That  I  like  to  have  belong  to  age. 

'Tis  that  of  a  snowy -haired  old  man ; 

He  lives  in  a  poor  and  lowly  place, 
But  I  go  that  way  whenever  I  can, 

Just  to  glance  at  his  saintly  face ; 

Lonely  and  gray,  I  know  he  has  given 
Up  every  hope  but  that  of  heaven. 
He  has  lived  through  many  and  sorrowful  days,-  — 

I  heard  his  story  once,  with  a  sigh  ; 
But  I  hardly  pity  him,  for  he  will  gaze 

Soon  out  of  the  windows  of  the  sky. 

Sometimes  'tis  the  face  of  a  fond  young  wife 

That  is  looking  out  where  the  curtains  part, 
In  her  arms  a  little  and  laughing  life, 

And  a  mother's  happiness  in  her  heart ; 
And  I  know  she  is  waiting  there  to  greet 
The  coming  of  absent  and  loving  feet. 
How  sure  is  the  glance  of  her  tender  eye ! 

She  leaves  the  window  and  goes  to  the  door ; 
She  has  seen  a  form  that  will  not  pass  by ; 

It  bends  to  hers,  and  her  watching  is  o'er. 

Stern,  rough  faces,  and  faces  fair ; 

Faces  that  seldom  have  known  a  tear ; 


75 


76  FACES  AT  THE    WINDOW. 

Thoughtful  faces,  and  faces  of  care ; 
All  by  turns  at  the  window  appear. 

And  often  and  often  I  hear,  as.  I  pass, 
\ 

A  patter  of  fingers  against  the  glass, 

And  a  glimpse  of  childish  brows  I  catch, — 
Oh,  beautiful  living  pictures  of  youth  ! 

Heaven  forever  over  them  watch, 

And  keep  them  bright  with  the  tints  of  truth 

But  turn  from  such,  and  wander  with  me 

From  the  golden  light  and  fresh,  free  air, 
To  poverty's  wretchedest  haunts,  and  see 

The  faces  that  look  from  the  windows  there. 
Some  so  sunken  and  thin  and  pale, 
Telling  of  want  a  pitiful  tale ; 
Some  whose  eyes  have  a  glare  of  hate ; 

And  others,  oh,  God  !  I  can  see  them  now, 
Stony  and  dark  and  desolate, 

With  not  a  sign  of  soul  on  the  brow. 

But  the  saddest  of  all  I  see  are  those 

I  sometimes  find  in  the  darkening  street, 
When  the  rude  wind  of  the  winter  blows, 
And  the  air  is  chill  with  frost  and  sleet. 
Poor  little  faces  outside  of  the  pane, 
"White  with  the  snow  or  wet  with  the  rain, 


TO-DA  Y. 

Gazing  wistfully  in  from  the  cold, 

Bright  with  a  glow  that  does  not  warm. 

Poor  little  lambs  with  never  a  fold, 
Poor  little  wanderers  in  the  storm. 

Oh,  faces  that  look  from  lofty  home, 

Or  from  the  roofs  where  the  wretched  go, 
Oh,  simple,  quiet  faces  that  come 

To  cottage  windows,  narrow  and  low, 
Oh,  glad  faces  that  make  me  glad, 
Oh,  sad  faces  that  make  me  sad, 
Is  there  not  coming  a  perfect  day 

When  you  all  with  a  common  love  will  shine, 
After  the  worm  has  eaten  this  clay, 

Moulded  in  image  of  Him  divine? 


77 


TO-DAY. 

NOT  well  for  him  who  to  the  past 

A  blind  faith  pins ; 
Not  always  where  one  age  toiled  last 

The  next  begins, 
For  centuries  from  Time's  womb  cast 

Are  not  born  twins. 


7 8  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

New  truth  awakes  to  us  each  day, 

And  its  strong  tide 
Our  poor  weak  hands  may  never  stay ; 

But  far  and  wide, 
It  sweeps  our  old  landmarks  away 

On  every  side. 

Away  with  those  who  set  their  store 

By  ancient  creeds ; 
The  vain  philosophies  of  yore 

Are  not  our  needs  ; 
To-day  the  world  is  calling  for — 

Not  words,  but  deeds. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

In  one  of  the  apartments  of  a  private  dwelling-house  in  Philadel 
phia  is  a  marble  mantel,  bearing  on  its  front  a  small  oval  mark  or  blur, 
the  work  of  nature,  which  is  recognized  by  all  to  whom  it  is  pointed 
out  as  an  exact  picture  of  the  poet  John  G.  Whittier.  The  polish  of 
the  marble  gives  an  exquisite  finish  to  this  unique  portrait,  and  the 
following  lines  are  suggested  by  the  beauty  and  singularity  of  the 
whole. 

DOTH  Nature  love  her  poet  so, 

That  she  delights  to  trace 
Upon  the  marble's  spotted  snow 

The  soulful  singer's  face? 


STILL    YOUNG. 

How  match  her  love-proofs  with  our  own, 

Be  hers  sweet  chance  or  art  ! 
She  paints  his  features  on  the  stone, 

And  we  upon  the  heart. 


79 


STILL    YOUNG. 

INSCRIBED  TO   R.  B. 

THY  form  is  bowed  with  age,  my  friend, 
And  thou  hast  passed  thy  life's  full  prime ; 

Thou  near'st  the  inevitable  end, 
But  with  no  terror  of  the  time. 

Thine  aged  face  long  since  has  lost 
The  freshness  of  an  earlier  day, 

And  on  thy  head  has  gathered  frost 
That  summer  suns  melt  not  away. 

And  yet  like  those  thou  dost  not  seem 

Who  in  the  later  walks  of  life 
Review  the  traveled  path,  and  deem 

It  one  long  way  of  pain  and  strife. 

Thy  blood  along  thy  veins  may  start 
With  slower  coursing  than  of  old, 


So  STILL    YOUNG. 

And  yet  it  comes  not  from  a  heart 

That  years  have  power  to  render  cold. 

Earth  still  for  thee  with  beauty  glows, 
And  things  of  joy  and  love  are  born ; 

Dark  skies  yet  brighten,  and  the  rose 
Still  gives  its  fragrance  with  the  thorn. 

Though  dimness  o'er  the  vision  creep, 
And  roses  from  the  cheek  depart, 

They  never  can  be  old  who  keep 
The  joyous  youth-time  of  the  heart. 

O'er  thee  Faith  holds  her  wings,  and,  like 

A  mother-bird  upon  the  nest, 
Keeps  off  the  coldness  that  would  strike 

The  summer  from  thy  hopeful  breast. 

The  beauty  that  around  us  lies, — 

And  when  is  beauty  from  our  sight  ? — 

Thou  gratefully  dost  recognize, 
Not  as  temptation,  but  delight. 

Some  there  have  been — some  there  are  still — 

So  dull,  so  virtuous,  so  severe, 
That  it  appears  to  them  an  ill 

To  gather  daily  pleasures  here. 


STILL    YOUNG. 

The  innocent  and  fine  delights 

Which  Heaven  surely  meant  for  all 

As  portion  of  our  needs  and  rights, 
They  can  but  fair  temptations  call. 

Such  narrowness  thou  dost  condemn. 

There  is  religion  e'en  in  art ; 
Thou  hast  no  sympathy  with  them 

Who  free  the  mind  but  bind  the  heart. 

Song  is  not  sin,  love  is  not  lust, 
Beauty  we  need  not  tremble  at ; 

What  shame  to  say  God  could  not  trust 
His  human  creatures  more  than  that ! 

Between  us  and  the  open  skies, 

Save  melting  clouds,  there  are  no  bars, 

O  man  !  thy  earthly  pathway  lies 
Between  the  flowers  and  the  stars  ! 

And  long  ago,  my  friend,  I  know 
To  thee  was  this  conviction  given  : 

Not  joylessly  should  mortals  go 
By  such  a  pathway  into  heaven. 

January,  1868. 


82  TO    ONE  DEPARTED. 


TO    ONE    DEPARTED. 

WE  have  seen  thee  in  thy  coffin, — 
Or  thy  beautiful,  cold  clay, — 

Kissed  thy  dead  lips  once  and  often, 
Closed  thy  grave,  and  come  away. 

"It  is  finished," — it  is  over, — 
All  that  sad  and  painful  part ; 

Green  the  grass  thy  grave  doth  cover, 
Close  the  clay  enfolds  thy  heart. 

But  now  memory  turneth  to  thee, 
Doing  well  her  tender  part ; 

And  we  see  thee  as  we  know  thee, 
As  thou  wast — and  as  thou  art. 

For  in  spiritual  feature 

Shines  thy  sweet  face  all  the  while ; 
If  her  dead  were  dead,  dear  Nature 

Could  not  thus  rejoice  and  smile. 

But  in  vain  our  earth-love's  wooing, 
In  some  far-off,  radiant  sphere 

Thou  art  living,  loving,  doing, 
Now  as  always, — but  not  here  ! 


THE    GRASS. 

Ah,  not  here  !  and  we  have  only 
Tender  memories  of  thee  left ; 

While  the  crowded  world  seems  lonely, 
Of  thy  presence  bright  bereft. 

Ne'er  again  thy  smile  will  greet  us, 
Though  its  light  we  hunger  for  ; 

Never  will  thy  form,  to  meet  us, 
Glide  like  sunshine  to  the  door. 

Friend,  adviser,  sister,  mother, — 
These  were  all  in  thee  combined ; 

Fare  thee  well !  there  is  no  other 
Like  thee  for  our  hearts  to  find. 


THE    GRASS. 

HAIL  to  you,  my  cheerful  friend, 

Whom  I  meet  with  everywhere, 
In  whom  use  and  beauty  blend 

Perfectly  as  light  with  air. 
You  do  not,  I  fear,  receive 

Half  the  praise  that  is  your  due, 
Though  I  never  will  believe 

That  your  friends  are  few, 


84  THE   GRASS. 

Heel  and  hoof  upon  you  trample, 

Yet,  to  see  it  if  we  care, 
You  afford  a  sweet  example 

Of  what  patient  faith  can  bear. 
When  the  battle's  bloody  dew 

Dieth  on  the  broken  sod, 
Quick  to  hide  the  painful  hue 

From  the  sight  of  God, 

Into  your  own  guiltless  growth 

You  absorb  the  awful  stain, 
Planting  life  and  beauty  both 

In  the  red  footprints  of  Cain  ! 
When  straightway  you  softly  creep 

To  the  graves  of  friends  and  foes, 
And  alike  above  their  sleep 

Spread  your  green  repose. 

4 

Many  a  lesson  true  you  teach  us, 

Many  a  wholesome  hint  you  give, 
Many  a  silent  sermon  preach  us, 

In  the  lowly  life  you  live. 
Though  the  tree  above  you  towers, 

Envy  with  you  is  not  found  ; 
Pride  you  have  not,  though  the  flowers 

Show  it  all  around. 


THE    GRASS. 

Very  lowly  is  your  station, 

But  you  pine  not  at  your  place, — 
There  is  no  humiliation 

Known  to  cheerfulness  and  grace. 
Ever  toiling  you  are  seen, 

All  the  land  you  wander  through, 
Till  you  spread  your  grateful  green 

Broad  as  heaven's  blue. 

In  the  city,  which  the  sorest 

Needs  you  for  its  crimes  and  pains, 
In  the  temples  of  the  forest, 

Where  a  constant  sabbath  reigns, 
Round  our  homesteads,  round  our  graves, 

Loved  by  all,  you  wander  free  ; 
Oft  the  dying  vision  craves 

Its  last  glimpse  of  you  shall  be. 

Voiceless  and  yet  full  of  voices 

Are  you,  and  I  love  to  lie 
With  you  when  the  year  rejoices, 

'Neath  the  open  summer  sky. 
Who  shall  say  that  when  the  heats 

Of  the  ripe  June  on  you  shine, 
That  the  life  that  in  you  beats 

Is  not  kin  to  mine  ? 
8* 


86  THE    GRASS. 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  riot, 

On  the  meadow's  flowery  floor, 
Oh  to  feel  your  cooling  quiet  I 

Heaven's  rest  need  be  no  more  ! 
At  such  times,  forsake  me,  Care  ! 

Busy  brain,  your  working  cease  ! 
Earth  is  downy,  and  the  air 

An  expanded  peace. 

All  the  world  may  wander  by  me  : 

Am  I  faint, — you  give  me  rest ; 
Am  I  lonely, — you  supply  me 

With  companionship  the  best.    . 
Doubt  our  human  love  who  can  ? 

Not  I ;  yet  I  never  drew 
Sweeter  sympathy  from  man 

Than  I  find  in  you. 

To  assert  it  may  be  sin, 

But  I  dare  to  think  it  true  : 
Nothing  on  the  earth  has  been, 

Since  the  Christ,  so  good  as  you. 
Courage,  constancy,  and  love — 

You  are  active  type  of  all. 
Who  more  works  or  faith  can  prove  ? 

Neither  John  nor  Paul ! 


HAR  VEST-  TIME. 


HARVEST-TIME. 


SLOWLY  the  starlight  fades  away  ; 
A  faintest  tinge  of  reddening  gray 
Flames  in  the  East's  low  horizon,  heraldic  of  the  coming 
day. 

H. 

The  pale  moon  hides  her  silver  horn, 
And,  on  the  rising  breezes  borne, 

A  hundred  waking  voices  break  the  dewy  silence  of  the 
morn. 

in. 

From  tangled  brake  and  leafy  hill 
Goes  up  the  birds'  rejoicing  trill, 
Till  all  the  listening  skies  above  with  Nature's  sweet- 
tuned  music  fill. 

IV. 

And  as  the  songsters  gayly  chime, 
The  first  young  beams  of  morning  climb 
And  mingle  in  one  glare,  to  light  the  long,  glad  'hours 
of  harvest-time. 


88  HARVEST-TIME. 

v. 

Bright  o'er  the  earth  the  full  day  breaks; 
The  sleeping  world  to  life  awakes, 
And   rested   Labor  leaves  his  couch  and   to  his    toil 
himself  betakes. 

VI. 

Forth  to  the  field,  a  sturdy  throng, 
The  harvesters,  with  laugh  and  song, 
From   many  a   farm-house  white   outpour   and    haste 
with  earnest  step  along. 

VII. 

Slow  moving  through  the  ripened  fields, 
His  gleaming  blade  the  reaper  wields 
With    tireless   arm ;     and,    falling    low,    the   waiting 
grain  unto  him  yields. 

VIII. 

And,  following  close,  the  binder  leaves 
His  pathway  strewn  with  yellow  sheaves, 
That  rustle  in  the  summer  wind  like  rain-drops  on 
dead  autumn  leaves. 

IX. 

Upon  the  harvest  air  there  steals 
The  roll  of  verdure-muffled  wheels, 
As   onward    pass   the    patient    teams,    the   wain    low 
rumbling  at  their  heels. 


SUMMER  HYMN.  89 


X. 


Halted  among  the  gathered  sheaves, 
A  precious  freight  it  quick  receives, 
Then,  winding  o'er  the  stubble  slopes,  unloads  beneath 
the  sheltering  eaves. 


XI. 


As  thus  they  reap  the  fruitful  lands, 
Oh  !  let  us  humbly  clasp  our  hands, 
And  in  all  truth  and  reverence  ask  God's  blessing  on 
the  harvest  bands  ! 


SUMMER    HYMN. 

A  VISIBLE  blessing  rests  upon  the  land, 

With  joy  the  heart  of  man  was  never  sweeter; 
Summer  has  almost  reached  the  Autumn's  hand, 

That  seems  outstretched  to  greet  her. 
Her  work  is  done,  and  to  her  rest  she  goeth, 

Making  a  fragrance  of  her  dying  breath, 
While  round  her  path  a  golden  glory  gloweth, 

Lighting  her  steps  to  death. 

It  is  a  solemn  hour,  and  yet  not  sad  ; 

The  corn-fields  rustle,  and  the  waters  glisten, 


9o  SUMMER  HYMN. 

The  forests  sweep  around  us  green  and  glad, 
With  music  in  each  leaflet  if  we  listen. 

And  they  know,  and,  knowing,  are  subdued, 

In  all  their  joy,  that  Summer's  strength  is  failing; 

There  is  a  tenderness  in  Nature's  mood 
That  soon  will  wake  to  wailing. 

A  lovelier  season  never  on  us  smiled, 

JHer  presence  seemed  so  living  and  so  human  ; 
Spring  was  the  wayward  and  capricious  child, 

Summer  the  loving  woman. 
We  part  from  her  as  from  a  cherished  friend 

Who  unto  gentle,  painless  death  is  given, 
And  on  whose  face  remaineth  to  the  end 

A  look  as  if  of  heaven. 

Unblamed,  may  we  not  think  there  is  a  spirjt 

Of  the  departed  Summer  that  survives, 
And  in  some  higher  region  doth  inherit 

The  crown  of  perfect  lives  ? 
If  this  should  be,  what  glory  must  await 

The  beauteous  season,  not  yet  quite  departed  ! 
Faithful  was  she  in  her  first  estate, 

Full-handed  and  free-hearted. 

Never  had  toil  more  liberal  reward, 

More  bountiful  was  not  Earth's  first  fruition  ; 


SUMMER   HYMN. 


91 


Her  ancient  vigor  seems  almost  restored, 

And  hope  is  man's  condition. 
God  of  the  harvest !  all  good  gifts  Thou  hast  given  : 

Sunlight  and  dew,  and  most  the  blessed  rain, 
That,  'twixt  the  green  of  earth,  the  blue  of  heaven, 

Swung  glad  its  silver  chain. 

We  thank  Thee  that  once  more  our  eyes  behold 

The  miracle  of  Nature's  resurrection  : 

f 
While  not  a  grass-blade  grew,  nor  blossom  swelled, 

Outside  of  Thy  protection. 
The  snow's  delay,  the  sunshine's  recompense, 

The  mountain's  and  the  meadow's  gradual  green 
ing,— 
On  all  we  looked,  with  no  diminished  sense 

Of  their  sublimer  meaning. 

Disastrous  blight,  as  sometimes,  came  not  near, 

Nor  War  and  Pestilence,  those  dread  marauders; 
Untimely  frosts  did  not  descend  to  sear  ; 

No  fierce  tornado  crossed  our  fruitful  borders. 
In  peace  we  watched  the  days  come  up  in  splendor  ; 

The  dreamy  noons  soft-sunk  in  sunny  rest ; 
The  many-colored  sunsets  burning  tender, 

Like  mornings  in  the  west. 

How  full  of  God  seemed  all  those  glowing  hours  ! 
Nature  rebuked  the  skeptic  and  the  doubter ; 


5  TOHICKON. 

Faith  took  again  the  simple  form  of  flowers, 

While  Love  rejoiced  about  her. 
That  time  is  past,  and  now  the  shortening  days 

Hint  of  decay  and  take  a  tinge  of  sadness, 
But  still  are  full  of  pleasantness  and  praise, — 

The  after-harvest  gladness. 

Soon  fiercely  forth  invading  winds  will  rush 

Through  mountain  pass  and  under  forest  column, 
And  northern  nights  come  down  with  frigid  hush, 

Unpitying  and  solemn. 
Welcome  that  time  of  tempest  and  of  snow ! 

The  skies  will  still  repeat  their  starry  story, 
And  through  the  gloom  a  future  Summer  show, 

Crowned  with  the  olden  glory. 

August  28,  1869. 


TOHICKON. 

SWEET,  quiet  spot !  it  was  a  summer  noon 
When  first  amid  thy  solitudes  I  strayed ; 

As  if  thyself  had  bid,  with  joyous  tune, 

Thy  songsters  welcome  to  thy  rest  and  shade. 

Bright  shone  the  sun  in  rich  meridian  glare, 
And  all  thy  trees  waved  invitation  sweet, 


TOHICKON. 


93 


As  the  warm  pulses  of  the  dreamy  air 

Softly  among  their  screening  branches  beat. 

We  were  a  merry  band, — for  not  alone 

I  sought  to  pass  those  few  swift  hours  with  thee  ; 

Thy  beauteous  haunts,  I  ween,  had  seldom  known 
The  presence  of  a  goodlier  company. 

Where  the  thick  curtains  of  thy  woods,  o'erhead 
Drawn  green  and  dim,  cast  down  their  coolest  shade, 

Around  a  rock,  that  maidens'  hands  had  spread 
With  plenteous  feast,  a  full  repast  we  made. 

Then  down  thy  slopes,  that  green  before  us  lay, 
Into  thy  low,  delightful  vale  we  strolled  ; 

By  rugged  path  and  tangled  winding  way 

We  flanked  thy  heights,  precipitous  and  bold. 

Thy  loneliest  nook  had  felt  the  thirsty  gleam 
Of  the  ripe  sunshine  falling  hot  and  red, 

And,  from  its  banks,  we  saw  thy  famished  stream 
With  rippled  surface  creep  along  its  bed. 

Here,  dark  and  still,  it  wound  its  current  where 
The  cooling  shadows  of  thy  cliffs  were  thrown, 

And  farther  on,  'gainst  bars  that,  brown  and  bare, 
Were  interposed,  it  broke  with  lowly  moan. 
9 


94 


TOHICKON. 


As  by  its  sides  I  watched  the  white  groups  pass, 
Or  saw  them  o'er  it  bend  with  perfect  grace, 

It  seemed  to  smile,  I  thought,  when,  like  a  glass, 
It  gave  reflection  of  some  lovely  face. 

Then  on  again  with  sluggish,  devious  flow, 
It  purled  and  fretted  by  thy  rocky  piles ; 

Its  waters  scant  with  bubbles  all  aglow, 

That  wrecked  themselves  against  its  little  isles. 

The  autumn  rains  would  fall,  I  knew,  until, 

With  generous  floods  its  every  source  supplied, 
The  sleeping  echoes  of  thy  russet  hill 

Would  wake  in  answer  to  its  roaring  tide. 
******* 
The  hours  sped  on ;  the  sun,  low  in  the  skies, 

Warned  that  we  could  no  longer  with  thee  dwell ; 
So  from  thy  scenes  we  turned  our  lingering  eyes, 

When  to  them  we  had  looked  a  long  farewell. 

Yet  to  thee  oft,  Tohickon,  I  will  turn, 

When  memory  leads  me  in  her  gentle  train  ; 

Thy  charms  I  will  recall,  until  I  yearn 
To  feel  their  holy  influence  again. 

When,  by  the  troubled  days  in  which  we  live, — 
Their  rude  alarms,  their  strifes  that  never  cease, — 


TOHICKON. 


95 


I  am  oppressed,  if  then  to  thee  I  give 

One  moment's  thought,  that  moment  will  be  peace. 

Sweet  hermit  spot !  with  thee  the  home  might  be 
Of  those  who  from  their  fellows  live  alway, — 

Stern  anchorites,  and  sages  gray, — ah  me  ! 
The  world  would  only  laugh  at  such  to-day ! 

And  yet  in  haunts  like  thine,  far  from  the  sound 

Of  noisy  reasoning  and  vain  dispute, 
Men  truly  wise  and  good  there  might  be  found, 

As  thickest  foliage  hides  the  rarest  fruit. 

Thine  is  no  classic  ground  ;  but,  lone  and  fair, 
A  garden-place,  by  Nature  planned,  thou  art ; 

Where  the  wild  Beautiful  may  be,  and  where 
The  fading  works  of  man  can  have  no  part. 

Were  I  to  come,  when  I  had  passed  my  youth, 
Once  more  amid  thy  loveliness  to  range, 

The  same  old  scenes  would  speak  the  sad,  sad  truth : 
It  is  not  things,  so  much  as  men,  that  change. 

August,  1864. 


96  A    DA  Y  IN   OCTOBER. 


A    DAY    IN    OCTOBER. 

I  WANDER  far  by  field  and  glen, 
The  hazy  skies  are  hanging  low ; 

The  breeze  awhile  is  strong,  and  then 
Forgets  to  blow. 

His  curious  web  the  spider  weaves 
O'er  late-green  acres  growing  brown  ; 

Like  wounded  birds,  the  colored  leaves 
Are  fluttering  down. 

As  red  are  those  yon  maple  shows 
As  if  the  drops  that  wet  the  wood 
Last  night  had  not  been  rain,  but  blood. 

Of  berries  bright  the  hedge  is  full ; 

The  bay-bush  blushes  as  with  shame ; 
The  sumach's  plume  is  like  a  dull 
But  steady  flame. 
Erect  the  pointed  poplars  stand, 

Proud  to  display  their  fluttering  gold  ; 
The  rough  pine  towers  green  and  grand, 

Unhurt  by  cold. 
The  scarlet  brier  seems  all  on  fire, 


A   DAY  IN  OCTOBER. 

And  in  the  breeze  the  golden-rod 
Waves  stiffly  o'er  the  frosted  sod. 

At  times  the  bright  woodpecker  knocks 
With  sound  that  seems  the  wood  to  jar ; 

The  wild  fowl  northward  fly  in  flocks 
Triangular. 

Beyond  the  upland,  sear  and  dry, 

On  which  the  scattered  heaps  of  corn 

Like  spots  of  yellower  sunshine  lie, 
A  smoke  is  borne 

In  languid  drifts ;  then  white  uplifts, 
And,  like  some  earth-freed  spirit  fair, 
Ascends  the  steep  and  stairless  air. 

I  leave  the  upland,  broad  and  bright, 
And  to  the  hoary  woodland  stray ; 
There,  with  a  solemn,  softened  light, 
Shines  the  still  day. 
Oh,  beautiful !  through  stained  glass 
Never  such  light  as  this  did  pour  ; 
Almost  in  awe  along  I  pass ; 

A  marble  floor, 

Instead  of  moss,  I  seem  to  cross, 
As  if  my  feet,  invading,  trod 
Some  inmost  sanctuary  of  God. 
9* 


97 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 


INDIAN    SUMMER. 

THE  Autumn,  brown  and  late,  is  forth, 

Yet  storms  delay  awhile  ; 
A  sweet,  sad  light  is  over  earth, — 

'Tis  Summer's  dying  smile. 
From  field  and  fern  she  could  not  go, 

And  all  she  loved  before, 
Without  one  last  fond  look,  and  so 

She  comes  to  them  once  more. 

As  we  go  last  to  look  on  some 

Dear  face  whence  life  has  fled, 
So  doth  the  mourner  Summer  come 

To  gaze  upon  her  dead. 
The  Autumn  marks  her  features  wan, 

And,  seeing  that  she  grieves, 
He  comforts  her  as  best  he  can, 

And  strews  her  paths  with  leaves. 

The  chilling  winds  he  doth  repress 
Which  would  about  her  blow, 

And  shows  by  his  rough  tenderness 
That  he  respects  her  woe. 


THE  FROST. 

Ah  !  little  he  can  for  her  do ; 

He  brings  no  rainbow-showers ; 
He  cannot  tint  her  hills  anew, 

Nor  give  her  back  her  flowers. 

And  when  her  pensive  eyes  behold 

The  change  wrought  by  decay, 
She  feels  her  feeble  limbs  grow  cold, 

Her  heart-warmth  pass  away. 
And,  with  that  sad  smile  on  her  face, 

She  lowly  droops  her  head 
In  tender  and  expiring  grace, 

And  dies  beside  her  dead. 


99 


THE    FROST. 

I  COME,  I  come  from  my  Arctic  halls, 
Where  the  iceberg  rears  its  glittering  walls, 
And  the  billows  break  with  a  sullen  roar 
'Gainst  the  snowy  cliffs  of  the  polar  shore. 

I  have  lingered  long  in  a  cheerless  clime, 
While  the  year  has  had  its  bud  and  prime, 
And  the  golden  harvest  sprung  from  the  sod 
Of  the  desert  fields  that  the  winter  trod. 


I00  THE  FROST. 

As  one  for  a  triumph  waits,  so  I 
Have  lain,  while  the  sun  in  the  southern  sky 
Sank  lower  down,  and  shortened  his  march 
Through  the  glowing  space  of  the  azure  arch. 

For  not  till  his  sultry  strength  was  spent, 

Arid  his  fire-shod  feet  retreating  went 

Toward  the  South' s  bright  gates,  dared  I  venture  forth 

From  my  fortress  home  in  the  frozen  North. 

Over  mountain  and  plain,  away,  away  ! 
I  follow  the  track  of  the  flying  day ; 
And  the  green  earth  thrills  with  a  silent  fear, 
As  she  feels  me  come  with  the  darkness  near. 

With  crystal  bridges  I  span  the  streams, 

And  onward  I  sweep  'neath  the  moon's  cold  beams, 

Till  not  a  lone  spot  is  there  left  uncrossed 

By  the  flying  form  of  the  demon  Frost. 

Where  I  scatter  the  flakes  of  my  driftless  snow, 
The. light  of  the  rosy  morn  will  show 
The  beautiful  wonders  my  hand  has  wrought, 
Swift  as  the  whirlwind,  silent  as  thought. 

To  the  dim,  hushed  woods  in  my  flight  I  turn, 
And  to-morrow  their  fated  leaves  will  burn 


THE  FROST.  IOi 

With  a  hundred  hues,  as  false  as  the  glow 
That  flushes  the  cheek  when  the  life  is  low. 

The  chestnuts  drop  at  the  touch  of  my  wand, 
And  the  shellbarks,  brushed  by  my  viewless  hand, 
Rebound  from  the  turf  or  plash  in  the  rill, 
Though  the  loaded  boughs  of  the  trees  are  still. 

Oh,  joy  for  the  groups  that  at  early  morn 
Come  brushing  their  way  through  the  wet-leafed  corn, 
When  they  find,  'neath  the  colored  leaves  they  stir, 
The  scattered  wealth  of  the  hull  and  burr ! 

The  grass,  the  corn,  and  the  late  green  wheat 
Feel  the  icy  tread  of  my  silent  feet, 
And  soon  to  take  they  will  all  be  seen 
The  Autumn's  brown  for  the  Summer's  green. 

Alas  for  the  flowers  !  to  them  my  breath 
Is  like  a  blast  from  a  land  of  death ; 
Though  some  bloom  on  as  if  they  knew 
That  the  blighting  frost  is  but  colder  dew. 

But  though  I  bring  to  the  fields  so  gay 

A  terror  that  takes  their  gladness  away, 

Though  the  bloom  and  fragrance  of  sun-grown  things 

Must  fade  when  I  pass  on  my  shadowy  wings. 


I02  THE   ICE- KING. 

Yet  a  sweeter  air  and  a  lovelier  sky 

Shall  follow  me  far  as  I  hasten  by ; 

And  though  clouds  succeed,  and  white  storms  fall, 

A  promise  of  life  lies  warm  in  them  all. 

Beyond  the  darkness,  beyond  the  cold, 
The  map  of  the  Spring  is  in  beauty  unrolled ; 
And  glory  and  brightness  descend  to  the  Earth, 
As  they  did  when  the  stars  rejoiced  at  her  birth  ! 

As  frost  to  the  fields,  so  death  comes  to  men ; 
They  perish — but  only  to  flourish  again. 
So,  mortals,  take  courage,  and  fear  not  the  blast 
That  blows  when  the  summer  of  life  is  past. 


THE    ICE-KING. 

IN  the  far  regions  of  the  North  there  dwells  a  monarch 

grim, 
King  of  those  ever-frozen  realms,  that,  unexplored  and 

dim, 
Are  spread  around  the  distant  pole,  and,   dumb  and 

dead  and  white, 
Lie  always  in  the  shadow  of  one  grand,  eternal  night. 


THE   ICE-KING. 


103 


A  mighty  king  is  he  ; 
No  other  king  may  be, 
Of  all  earth's  sovereign  rulers,  so  much  a  king  as  he. 

We  feel  the  bitter  north  wind   blow, — it  only  is  his 

breath  ; 

** 
Like  arctic  darkness  is  his  frown,  his  very  look  is  death ; 

And  never  to  his  presence  dread  dare  mortal's  footsteps 

go,— 
He  is  a  hermit  and  a  king,  and  in  his  robes  of  snow, 

Grand,  terrible,  and  lone, 

He  sits  upon  his  throne, 
The  never-dying  monarch  of  an  ever-freezing  zone. 

Loyal  his  subjects  are,  but  few, — the  frost,  the  cloud, 

the  storm, 

Obedient  to  his  least  behest,  around  his  awful  form 
Gather  their  might,  or  speed  away  o'er  his  dominions 

far ; 

Free  even  as  himself,  yet  they  his  willing  servants  are : 
No  trembling  vassal  stands 
To  list  to  his  commands, 
For  he  no  king  of  people  is,  but  of  unpeopled  lands. 

Built  of  the  glittering,  silver  ice,  his  palaces  arise, 
Their  shining  turrets  reaching  towards  the  cold  stars  in 
the  skies. 


104  THE  ICE- KING. 

Cities  of  purest  ice  he  rears,  and  paves  with  ice  the 

streets, 

Breaks  off  the  icebergs  from  his  shores,  and  sails  them 
as  his  fleets, 

And  o'er  his  drear  domain, 
Upon  each  hill  and  plain, 

He  hoards  the  deep,  abundant  snows,  and  counts  them 
as  his  gain. 

When  he  is  weary  with  the  shade  of  his  long  lowering 
nights, 

Within  the  hollow  skies  he  sets  his  wild,  mysterious 
lights, 

That,  flaming  through  the  viewless  air,  in   our  own 
heavens  shine, 

And  of  his  kingdom's  glories  are  a  beauteous,  wondrous 
sign,— 

Strange  meteors  'mid  the  gloom, 
His  borders  they  illume, 

And  are  his  frigid  fires  that  burn  and  yet  do  not  con 
sume. 

Across  the  torrid  main  he  floats  his  crystal  argosies, 
And  white  upon  the  mountain-tops  he  plants  his  colo 
nies  ; 


THE   ICE- KING.  Ic>5 

Sends  his  stern   ministers  each  year  to  desolate  the 

earth, 
And  binds  her  flowery,  Eden  fields  within  an  icy  girth, — 

A  cruel  king  he  is ; 
He  spoils  the  realms  of  other  kings,  but  they  cannot 

spoil  his. 

We  love  our  green  and  sunny  slopes,  he  loves  his  polar 

home ; 
Beneath  the  forest's  leafy  arch   our   feet  may  gayly 

roam; 
Our  eyes  may  watch  the  warm  waves  toss  and  the  bright 

rivers  flow; 
He  lives  apart  from  our  delights,  a  hermit-king, — and 

though 

No  flowers  for  him  unfold, 
No  harvests  lift  their  gold, 
Yet  joyously  he  reigns  amid  his  solitudes  of  cold. 


I06      WINTER  NIGHT  AND  SUMMER  NOON. 


THE    WINTER    NIGHT    AND    THE 
SUMMER    NOON. 

THE  moon  is  down,  and  the  night  is  chill, 
The  silent  snow-flakes  flutter  and  fall, 

And  the  stars,  that  I  know  are  in  the  skies, 
Through  the  gloom  I  cannot  see  at  all. 

Here,  where  the  firelight  falls  so  clear, 
Flooding  the  room  with  a  rosy  tide, 

I  sit,  as  the  sombre  hours  wear  on, 
And  list  to  the  moan  of  the  storm  outside. 

Its  warning  given,  twelve  measured  strokes 
The  old  clock  peals  from  the  chimney-shelf, 

In  tones  as  solemn  and  weird  and  strange 
As  if  'twere  the  voice  of  time  itself. 

Bleaker  without  grows  the  lonely  night, 

And,  as  louder  the  troubled  blast  complains, 

Against  my  window  I  hear  a  sound 

As  if  ghostly  fingers  touched  the  panes. 

'Tis  only  the  beat  of  the  driving  flakes, 
Wilder  whirled  to  the  earth  below, 


WINTER  NIGHT  AND  SUMMER  NOON.      loj 

Till  village  and  vale  and  hill  are  lost 

In  a  wide,  white  waste  of  midnight  snow. 

I  gaze  without  on  the  desolate  scene, 

While  a  gentle  sorrow  comes  to  my  breast 

As  I  think  of  the  beautiful  year  I  loved 
Under  these  snow-flakes  laid  at  rest. 

The  beautiful  year,  with  its  days  of  light, 
Its  cheeks  of  rose,  and  its  garlanded  brow, 

Its  brooks,  its  birds,  and  its  forests  green, 

Its  flowers  and  harvests, — where  are  they  now  ? 

The  streams  are  hushed,  and  the  birds  are  flown, 
And  the  flowers,  since  the  frost  put  out  their  bloom, 

Under  their  shroud  of  snow  have  lain, 
Like  friends  of  ours  in  the  silent  tomb. 

But  why  should  I  sigh  ?  for  the  spring  will  come, 
And  break  for  the  streams  their  icy  chain ; 

The  earth  will  awake  from  its  sleep  of  death, 
And  blossom  and  bloom  with  beauty  again. 

And,  if  for  the  dead  of  the  woods  and  fields 
This  beautiful  future  shall  come  to  pass, 

Oh  !  what  of  the  dead  that  we  have  lost  ? 
Can  they  be  less  than  the  leaves  and  grass  ? 


I08  THE   STREAM  OF  THE    VALLEY. 

Blow,  blow,  ye  winds  from  the  stormy  north, 
And  drift,  ye  snows  frpm  the  sullen  skies  ! 

Still  through  the  wail  of  the  storm  I  hear 
Faith  on  her  rustling  pinions  rise. 

And  I  will  not  set  my  songs  of  life 

To  slow  and  sorrowful  tunes, 
For  there  isn't  a  year  with  its  winter  nights 

But  there  follow  the  summer  noons. 

What  though  the  tempest  roar  o'erhead, 
And  the  land  be  drear  as  the  frozen  pole  ? 

There's  a  summer  noon  of  light  for  the  earth, 
A  summer  noon  of  life  for  the  soul ! 


THE    STREAM    OF    THE    VALLEY. 

THOU  murmuring  stream  ! 

Whose  silver  length  shines  through  the  purple  valley, 
Beside  thy  banks  oft  have  I  loved  to  dally, 
And  feel  the  peace  that  thou  art  ever  bringing ; 

And  see  thy  smiles,  and  hear  thy  song, 

As  windingly  thou  flowest  along, 
With  ripples  for  thy  smiles,  and  rippling  for  thy  singing. 


THE   STREAM  OF   THE    VALLEY. 


109 


Since  God's  great  hand 

Unbarred  for  thee  the  green  gates  of  the  mountains, 
And  led  thee,  laughing,  from  thy  secret  fountains 
Down  to  the  margin  of  the  far-off  river, 

The  years  have  seen  thee  glide, 

With  dimpled,  bubbled  tide, 
Ever  changing  in  thy  flow,  and  yet  unchanged  forever. 

On  morns  of  spring, 

Oft  have  I  watched  the  early  sunshine  flashing, 
First  on  the  hills,  and  then  along  the  meadow, 
Scaring  before  it  every  lingering  shadow, 

Waking  the  wild  flags  from  their  dewy  dreams, 
And  gliding  on  until  at  last  it  seems 
To  stoop  and  drink  where  thy  bright  waves  are  dashing. 

When  summer  skies, 

Unclouded,  overarch  thee,  hot  and  glowing, 

And  all  thy  flowers  drop  their  modest  eyes, 
Afraid  to  look  upon  their  lord,  the  sun, 
Close  to  their  feet  they  hear  thy  waters  run, 

And  turn  to  thee,  and  watch  thee  in  thy  flowing ; 

And  then  I  fancy  that  their  dumb  lips  move, 
As  if  to  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  love, 

Until,  at  times,  the  impulse  half  obeying, 
I  bend  my  ear,  that  I  may  hear 

What  words  of  blessing  they  to  thee  are  saying. 
10* 


IIO  THE   LAND    OF  NEVERMORE. 

But  when  the  autumn  brings 
The  Indian-summer  hours  of  pale  October, 

And  all  dull  things 
Are  glad,  and  all  glad  things  are  sober, 

Most  to  thy  presence  do  my  footsteps  stray ; 
The  crimson  leaves  that  are  thy  bosom  staining 

Float  on  thy  surface,  like  dead  hopes,  away, — 
They  and  thy  waters  going,  but  thou  fore'er  remaining. 

But  whether  morning's  light 
Plays  by  thy  brink,  or  whether  golden -hearted 
Summer  skies  in  glory  burn  above  thee, 

Or  whether  autumn  gales 

Breathe  out  their  mournful  tales 
Of  a  sweet  summer  that  has  just  departed, 
Thou  art  the  same,  and  'tis  for  this  I  love  thee. 


THE    LAND    OF    NEVERMORE. 

THERE  is  a  land  forever 

Unchanged  by  change,  though  never, 
Save  in  memory  and  dreams,  our  feet  can  tread  its  shore; 

It  is  that  pleasant  region 

Where  dwell  the  shining  legion 
Of  things  that  have  departed, — the  land  of  Nevermore. 


THE    LAND    OF  NEVERMORE.  XII 

And  unto  its  dominions, 

Conveyed  upon  the  pinions 
Of  tender  recollection,  who  does  not  love  to  go  ? 

For  all  that  has  been  sweetest, 

Or  fairest,  or  completes!, 

In  the  lives  that  we  have  lived,  we  there  again  may 
know. 

To  some  it  may  be  lonely, — 

To  those  who  have  had  only 

A   few  faint  joys   to  brighten  the   pathway  of  their 
years ; 

Yet  even  these  the  daytime 

Of  youth — life's  sunny  Maytime — 
Have  known  and  have  enjoyed,  and  there  it  reappears. 

Ay,  there  the  old  and  weary, 
Approaching  fast  death's  dreary 

And  terror-haunted  valley,  resume  awhile  their  youth; 
And  bosoms  filled  with  sadness 
May  thrill  once  more  with  gladness, 

And  lips  of  the  deceiver  may  find  again  their  truth. 

And  there  the  mother  presses 
Her  babe  with  soft  caresses, — 

That  clear-eyed  babe  whose  laughter  so  long  ago  was 
hushed ; 


H2  THE  LAND    OF  NEVERMORE. 

The  maiden  her  lost  lover 
Finds  in  their  trysting-cover, 

Where  first  the  sweet  confession  to  hear  and  make  she 
blushed. 

Love-words,  so  gently  spoken, 

And  promises  now  broken — 
Forgetting  that  they  are  so — we  there  may  hear  again  ; 

Or  grasp  some  former  treasure, 

Or  feel  anew  some  pleasure 
From" which  time  has  extracted  the  poison-sting  of  pain. 

And  restless-souled  Ambition, 
That  from  its  poor  condition 
Once  thought  to  have  arisen  high  in  fame's  noontide 

beam, 

Now,  hopeless  and  defeated, 
And  still  as  lowly  seated, 

Back  to  that  land  may  wander,  and  dream  again  its 
dream. 

Warm  hearts  may  now  be  near  us, 

Bright  eyes  may  shine  to  cheer  us, 
And  forms  of  loved  and  loving  within  our  homes  may 
stand ; 

But  warmer  hearts  and  truer, 

And  brighter  eyes  and  bluer, 
And  faces  still  more  lovely,  are  in  that  other  land. 


THE   MYSTERY.  H3 

No  Present  is  there  o'er  it, 

No  Future  stands  before  it, 
Uncertain  and  portentous,  and  full  of  fear  and  doubt ; 

Nor  blight  nor  storm  can  enter, 

To  make  our  spring  a  winter 

And  change  our  day  to  darkness,  if  we  choose  to  keep 
them  out. 

Then,  years,  so  swiftly  gliding, 

So  short  with  us  abiding, 
That  you  go  by  so  quickly  no  longer  we  deplore ; 

For  we  would  greatly  rather 

That  you  would  pass,  and  gather 
Into  these  fadeless  ages — the  years  of  Nevermore  ! 


THE    MYSTERY. 

OH  !  what  a  strange  being  this  creature  is 
That  hath  the  earth  so  under  his  sway  ! 

For  all  things  below  him  seem  wholly  his, 
To  rule  and  use  them  as  he  may, — 

To  come  and  go  whenever  he  bids, 
Nor  question  nor  dispute  his  way. 

He  wandereth  up,  and  he  wandereth  down, 
In  a  sort  of  strange  unrest, 


H4  THE  MYSTERY. 

As  though  he  oft  sought,  but  never  found, 

A  quiet  for  his  breast ; 
A  pillow  of  perfect  peace  his  head 

I'm  sure  hath  never  pressed. 

I  see  him  abroad  all  over  the  land, 

I  see  him  upon  the  main  ; 
If  I  miss  him  a  moment,  I  look  once  more, 

And  then  I  see  him  again. 

He  buildeth  a  city,  then  teareth  it  down, 

Then  raiseth  it  up  once  more ; 
And  he  still  toils  on,  till  his  temples  stand 

Where  they  never  have  stood  before ; 
And  I'm  told  that  as  he  worketh  now 

He  hath  ever  worked  of  yore. 

He  taketh  the  hand  of  his  fellow  in  love, 

And  walketh  in  peace  by  his  side, 
Till  he  heareth  a  word,  incautiously  said, 

That  woundeth  his  honor  or  pride, 
When  he  turneth  and  rendeth  his  comrade  in  wrath, 

Or  pusheth  him  rudely  aside. 

His  deeds  are  of  Greatness,  of  Right,  and  of  Wrong, - 
All  mingled  in  sorest  dismay ; 


THE   MYSTERY.  z 

What  seemeth  at  morning  as  noble  and  good 

Is  evil  at  close  of  the  day ; 
He  gives  one  a  serpent,  another  a  fish, 

Then  carelessly  goes  on  his  way. 

He  holdeth  outstretched,  in  the  same  open  palm, 

The  olive  branch  and  the  sword  ; 
And  the  empires  he  foundeth  may  flourish  or  fall 

On  the  turning  of  a  word  ; 
He  buildeth  a  palace,  to  die  in  a  cot, 

And  sleepeth  a  peasant,  to  wake  up  a  lord. 

At  the  harvest  of  Peace  and  the  harvest  of  War 

His  sickle  is  equally  keen, 
And  I  never  have  yet  been  able  to  tell 

Which  field  he  most  loveth  to  glean ; 
For  he  buildeth  a  sheaf  or  taketh  a  life 

With  the  same  unchanging  mien. 

To  me  the  pages  of  human  life 

Have  never  seemed  open  and  fair, 
And  this  much  only  have  I  learned 

In  all  I  have  studied  there  : 
'Twas  God's  intention  that  man  should  be 

For  Earth  a  master,  for  Heaven  an  heir. 

July  5,  1863. 


Il6         IS    THE    WORLD    OLD    OR    YOUNG? 


IS  THE  WORLD  OLD  OR  YOUNG? 

i. 

Is  the  World  old  or  young, — 

A  child  or  a  man  ? 
Who  shall  say  when  the  life 

Of  the  giant  began  ? 
How  many  years  still 

To  the  shine  of  the  sun 
Shall  he  lift  his  broad  brow, — 

Ten  thousand  or  one? 

ii. 
Speak,  voices  of  truth, 

Through  the  din  of  our  days, 
Till  we  know  how  to  shape 

Our  censure  or  praise  ; 
For  the  World,  that  we  say 

Groweth  hoary  with  years, 
Perhaps  is  not  done 

With  his  infantile  fears. 

in. 

Of  the  knowledge,  the  wisdom 
He  boasts  of  to-day, 


IS    THE    WORLD    OLD    OR    YOUNG? 

Like  a  vain,  learned  man, 
When  his  head  shall  be  gray 

May  to  him  appear 
As  the  learning  of  youth, 

To  one  aged  grown 
In  the  study  of  truth. 

IV. 

The  strife  of  his  armies, 

The  roll  of  his  drums, 
May  be  but  mock  battle 

To  warfare  that  comes  ; 
Or  a  spirit  so  holy 

His  breast  may  draw  near, 
Till  the  peace  of  the  past 

Shall  like  turmoil  appear. 

v. 
O  men  and  O  brethren  ! 

If  there's  one  thing  sublime 
This  side  of  the  skies, 

It  is  time,  it  is  time  ! 
It  is  time, — and  the  World 

May  be  yet  in  his  youth, 
With  ages  on  ages 

To  live  for  the  truth  ! 


117 


AT  THE  METROPOLIS. 


AT    THE    METROPOLIS. 

ALONG  the  crowded  street 

I  hear  the  ceaseless  beat 
Of  myriad  footsteps  as  they  come  and  go ; 

And  gaze,  as  in  a  dream, 

Upon  life's  busy  stream, 
That  by  me  has  its  flow  and  counter-flow. 

Darkly  the  night  is  down 

Upon  the  bustling  town  ; 
Still  sweeps  the  human  tide  resistless  on  ; 

And,  with  a  sullen  roar, 

Like  some  rough,  ocean  shore, 
Is  ever  going,  and  yet  ne'er  is  gone. 

Hiding  the  evening  skies, 

Grandly  around  me  rise 
The  mighty  city's  walls,  that  bind  the  sight 

To  the  illumined  pave, 

O'er  which  the  shadows  wave, 
Afraid  to  settle  on  a  scene  so  bright. 


AT   THE   METROPOLIS, 


119 


Proud  City  of  our  Land  ! 

Within  thy  bounds  I  stand, 
Where  once,  when  thou  wert  not,  the  red  men  stood 

And  heard  the  wild  birds  soar, 

And  watched  thy  river  pour 
Into  the  sailless  sea  its  unnamed  flood  ; 

•» 
Or,  wearied  with  the  chase, 

Lay,  in  their  savage  grace, 
Beside  the  fires  that  lit  their  lonely  camps,  . 

While,  dense  and  dark,  around, 

A  solemn  forest  frowned 
Where  now  the  air  is  glowing  with  thy  lamps. 

When  restless  Progress  spurned 

His  old  restraints,  and  turned 
From  the  far  Eastern  world  his  vessel's  prow, 

His  new  home  here  he  chose, 

And,  swift  and  fair,  uprose 
Beneath  his  hand  these  piles  that  gird  me  now. 

And  now  the  once  lone  isle 

Doth  with  thy  presence  smile ; 
Freedom's  long  years  have  heard  thy  steeples  chime; 

Wealth  decks  thee  with  its  pride, 

And  from  thy  harbor  ride 
Thy  freighted  ships  to  visit  every  clime. 


20  ONWARD ! 

But  not  for  this  alone, 

Fair  city,  art  thou  known  : 
A  classic  river  winds  thee  in  its  arms ; 

Beauty  within  thee  glows; 

Romance  around  thee  throws 
Its  loveliness,  and  history  its  charms. 

» 
It  glads  the  patriot's  heart 

To  be  with  thee  ;  thou  art 
A  palace  beautiful  and  vast, — a  dome 

Beneath  whose  thousand  spires 

Ambition  builds  his  fires, 
And  Art  and  Commerce  have  their  fostering  home. 

NEW  YORK,  February  22,  1865. 


ONWARD ! 

AY  !  this  is  the  watchword  ! 

This  is  the  cry  ! 
Onward  !  right  onward, 

To  do  or  to  die. 

Timid  and  listless 
Sit  not  and  sigh, 


ONWARD!  12i 

While  others,  more  earnest, 
Are  passing  you  by. 

Up  with  the  foremost ! 

Join  in  the  race, 
With  the  smile  of  endeavor 

Lighting  your  face. 

Onward  !  press  onward  ! 

The  will  makes  the  way  ; 
Life  was  not  meant 

As  a  pastime  or  play. 

Join  in  the  struggle, 

With  zeal  and  with  strength  ; 
As  others  have  conquered, 

So  you  may  at  length. 

Onward  !  right  onward  ! 

Be  one  of  the  few 
Who  have  courage  to  dare, 

And  patience  to  do. 

Onward  !  press  onward  ! 

For  triumph  is  sweet, 
And  the  rust  of  inaction 

Is  worse  than  defeat. 
n* 


THE    WAVE. 


THE    WAVE. 

(IN    IMITATION    OF   SHELLEY'S  "CLOUD.") 

OF  the  dust  he  treads  man  came  to  be, 

And  he  calls  his  mother  Earth ; 
But  I  am  born  of  the  wind  and  sea, 

With  the  moon  to  watch  my  birth. 
He  may  have  his  home  where  I  cannot  come, 

But  the  whole  wide  main  is  mine ; 
I  toss  and  roll  by  the  southern  pole, 

And  back  to  the  burning  line. 
Like  a  giant  band,  the  icebergs  stand 

To  guard  the  Arctic's  portals, 
But  I  glide  by  their  feet,  and  flow,  till  I  beat 

On  a  shore  never  trod  by  mortals. 
I  cool  my  brow  in  the  polar  snow, 

And  backward  then  I  shiver, 
Kissing  the  mouth,  as  I  wander  south, 

Of  many  a  crystal  river. 

On  the  qijiet  bay  I  love  to  play 

When  the  tired  wind  gently  lingers, 

And  its  tangled  mass  of  wild  sea-grass 
I  comb  with  my  salty  fingers. 


THE    WAVE. 


123 


Sunny  highlands,  and  tropic  islands, 

Wearing  their  crowns  of  palms, 
I  sparkle  by,  till  I  almost  die 

In  the  regions  of  the  calms. 
Those  fervid  skies,  with  their  burning  eyes, 

I  moan  and  languish  under, 
Till  I  hear  afar  a  noise  like  war, — 

Its  terror  and  its  thunder. 
Then  the  wild  gull  shrieks,  and  her  nest  she  seeks, 

The  frightened  air  grows  hotter, 
And  the  hurricane  in  his  might  again 

Comes  rushing  over  the  water. 
When,  the  fiery  lightning  his  forehead  bright'ning, 

And  his  cloudy  banners  o'er  him, 
In  his  terrible  wrath  he  sweeps  on  his  path, 

Driving  the  sea  before  him, 
In  his  arms  so  strong  he  bears  me  along, 

But  I  break  from  his  rude  embrace, 
And  rise  like  a  wall,  and  totter  and  fall, 

And  fling  my  foam  in  his  face. 

Oft  over  my  sight  streams  a  signal  light, 
And  I  hear,  with  the  joy  of  a  demon, 

The  solemn  boom  roll  deep  through  the  gloom. 
From  the  gun  of  the  perishing  seaman. 

I  leap  on  the  deck  of  the  drifting  wreck, 
And  drag  him  into  the  water, — 


124 


THE    WAVE. 


What  do  I  care  for  his  mother's  prayer, 
Or  the  tears  of  his  wife  and  daughter? 

His  bones  shall  whiten  where  diamonds  brighten 
The  lower  ocean's  floor, 

And  the  voice  of  the  surge  shall  be  his  dirge, 
Sounding  for  evermore. 

Through  secret  straits,  to  the  coral  gates 

Of  the  mermaids'  palace  I  roam, 
And  gather  bright  shells  from  the  ocean  dells, 

To  deck  their  watery  home. 
I  mould  the  sands  with  my  white  wet  hands, 

And  the  rough  coast  dent  with  scars ; 
I  take  my  hue  from  the  upper  blue, 

And  double  the  number  of  stars. 
When  that  lady  of  grace — the  moon — her  sweet  face 

Would  behold,  she  gazes  on  me ; 
And  the  sun  every  day,  when  the  clouds  are  away, 

On  my  bosom  his  image  can  see. 
I  am  the  child  of  the  breezes  wild, — 

The  waves  of  the  air, — and  brother  am  I 
To  the  shining  crowds  of  flying  clouds 

That  I  call  the  waves  of  the  sky  ! 


LIFE    THROUGH  DEATH. 


I25 


LIFE    THROUGH    DEATH. 

O  DEATH,  we  fear  thee  !     All  our  joys  and  pleasures 

We  feel  and  hold  as  thou  alone  may  say : 
In  vain,  with  jealous  care,  we  watch  our  treasures, 

Thou  dost  despoil  us  of  them  day  by  day. 
We  have  our  homes,  and  lovely  things  around  them 

Spring  up  to  gladden  and  adorn  the  earth  ; 
They  bloom  not  long :   too  oft,  when  thou  hast  found 
them, 

They  fade  within  the  hour  that  saw  their  birth: 
And  when  our  sun  of  hope  is  brightest  shining, 

'Tis  thy  strange  joy  to  shade  its  beams  with  night, 
Till  gloom  surrounds,  and  e'en  the  silver  lining 

Upon  the  cloud  shows  pale  unto  ou,r  sight. 
Affection's  golden  links  are  by  thee  riven, 

That  bind  us  to  our  good,  our  fair,  our  brave, 
As  one  by  one,  to  thy  cold  keeping  given, 

We  bear  our  loved  to  the  insatiate  grave. 

Thou  comest  nigh,  and  dear,  familiar  faces, 

Whose  smiles  could  brighten  saddest  hours,  we  miss  ; 

We  look  around,  and  see  the  empty  places, 

And  know  'twas  thou  who  stole  from  us  our  bliss. 


I26  LIFE    THROUGH  DEATH. 

When  thou  dost  take  what  most  we  would  retain, 

And  dost  our  cup  with  sorrow  over-fill, 
Our  robbed  and  wounded  hearts  may  sore  complain, 

But  thou  remainest  unrelenting  still. 
We  fear  thee,  Death  !  but  with  our  fear  is  mingled 

Something  of  joy  thy  terrors  cannot  quell; 
Though  thou  for  victims  hast  our  fairest  singled, 

And  cast  thy  darts  at  what  we  loved  so  well. 
How  far  were  God,  what  fearful  space  between 

This  low,  dim  spot  and  Heaven's  higher  land, 
Had  not  the  soul,  with  faith's  clear  vision,  seen 

The  wide  abyss  by  thy  dark  bridges  spanned  ! 

O'er  thy  fell  work  cease,  then,  thy  ghastly  grinning, 

Boast  not  too  much  of  all  thy  awful  powers ; 
Though  cruel  and  strong,  the  triumphs  thou  art  winning 

Are  not  all  thine, — thy  victories  are  ours. 
For  thou  dost  guide  each  weary,  fainting  mortal, 

When  thou  hast  conquered,  from  the  realms  of  sin ; 
'Tis  thy  dread  hand  unbars  the  heavenly  portal 

And  leads  us  to  undying  life  within. 


LINES   ON  A   SKLLL.  127 


LINES    ON    A    SKULL. 

WRITTEN     AT     THE     ACADEMY     OF     NATURAL     SCIENCES, 
PHILADELPHIA. 

BEHOLD  ranged  yonder,  row  on  row, 

Along  the  shelves  in  horrid  show, 

Those  skulls,  which,  though  no  eye  is  there, 

Seem  grimly  in  our  own  to  stare ; 

Which,  though  they  long  death's  prey  have  been, 

Have  yet  enough  of  life  to  grin. 

By  breath  and  warmth  and  soul  forsook, 

They  make  us  shudder  as  we  look. 

Yet  one,  it  seems  to  me,  has  less 

Of  all  the  common  hideousness. 

Something  more  human  I  can  trace 

Within  its  white  and  fleshless  face, 

Which  death  could  not,  nor  yet  the  worm, 

To  utter  ugliness  transform. 

Though  now  'tis  but  a  naked  skull, 

It  must  have  been,  once,  beautiful. 

And  if  some  power  could  restore 
The  living  eyes  that  once  it  bore, 


12g  LINES   ON  A    SKULL. 

What  soulful  light  might  from  them  start ! 

And  if  the  lips  were  there  to  part, 

The  cheeks  to  dimple,  and  the  chin 

To  catch  and  hold  the  dimples  in, 

How  bright  a  smile  then  might  we  see 

That  fixed  and  ghastly  grin  could  be  ! 

The  massive  and  high-builded  brow 

Is  almost  noble,  even  now, 

And  once,  clear-flamed  and  strong,  behind, 

There  may  have  glowed  the  fires  of  mind. 

And  these  may  oft  the  tongue  have  warmed 

Till  with  its  eloquence  it  charmed, 

Or  till,  in  some  great  hour,  it  stirred 

To  utter  the  convincing  word, 

With  whose  apt  aid,  perhaps,  was  broke 

Some  tyrant  Error's  galling  yoke. 

It  may  have  been ;  though  why  at  last, 
When  earthly  things  for  it  were  past, 
This  head  could  not  be  left  to  rot 
In  darkness  in  some  chosen  spot, 
Where  no  wide  eye  could  on  it  stare, 
I  do  not  know,  I  do  not  care. 
*I  only  know  the  deathless  mind 
That  fled  and  left  this  ruin  behind, 
Somewhere  within  the  heavenly  zone 
Will  find  and  fill  another  throne ; 


THE  BLUE    COAT  AND    THE    GRAY. 

That  He  who  lit  its  holy  fire 

Will  never  let  the  flame  expire  ; 

That  when  our  central  shining  sun 

His  course  of  glory  shall  have  run, 

And  stars  and  planets  cease  to  turn, 

Somewhere,  still  bright,  that  fire  shall  burn. 


129 


THE  BLUE  COAT  AND  THE  GRAY. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  REBELLION. 

NEAR  fair  Virginia's  borders 

Two  youthful  brothers  dwelt 
When  treason's  sad  disorders 

First  in  the  land  were  felt. 
Sons  were  they  of  a  mother 

Who  loved  them  passing  well, 
But  brother's  heart  'gainst  brother 

With  hate  began  to  swell. 
For  one  forgot  his  country, 

And  one  to  her  proved  true  ; 
One  put  on  the  gray  coat, 

And  one  put  on  the  blue. 

* 

The  mother  blessed  the  bearer 
Of  the  loyal  Union  hue, 


THE   BLUE   COAT  AND    THE    GRAY. 

But  saw  the  dreadful  error 

That  on  the  other  grew. 
By  ardent  words  and  tender 

To  win  him  back  she  strove  ; 
He  would  not  make  surrender 

Of  his  ill-chosen  love. 
In  vain  her  tears  and  pleadings; 

She  saw  them  march  away ; 
One  he  wore  the  blue  coat, 

And  one  he  wore  the  gray. 

God  pity  her,  poor  woman  ! 

As  in  her  woe  she  stands. 
If  'gainst  a  common  foeman 

They  had  but  joined  their  hands, 
No  living  loyal  mother 

Had  prouder  been  to  see ; 
But  brother  against  brother  ! 

It  was  too  sad  to  be. 
Led  by  different  captains, 

They  marched  to  join  the  fray ; 
One  he  wore  the  blue  coat, 

And  one  he  wore  the  gray. 

The  crimson  wave  of  battle 
Rolled  to  her  very  door ; 


THE  BLUE    COAT  AND    THE    GRAY. 

She  heard  the  rifle's  rattle, 

The  cannon's  awful  roar. 
Her  sick  heart  in  her  bosom, 

It  beat  above  the  guns : 
"  My  boys  !  and  must  I  lose  them  ? 

My  brave  and  darling  sons  ! 
My  heart  can  know  but  sorrow 

Whichever  wins  to-day, 
For  one  is  with  the  blue  coats, 

And  one  is  with  the  gray." 

At  last  had  ceased  the  thunder 

That  all  day  long  had  pealed. 
The  sad-faced  moon  in  wonder 

Looked  down  upon  the  field. 
What  need  to  tell  the  horror 

Those  soft,  sad  beams  lit  up  ? 
That  anguished  mother  !   for  her 

Remained  a  bitterer  cup. 
Two  lifeless  forms  were  borne  her 

Before  the  break  of  day ; 
One  had  on  the  blue  coat, 

And  one  had  on  the  gray. 

She  saw  them,  and  she  knew  them. 
"  My  God,"  she  cried  in  woe, 


132 


THE   BLUE    COAT  AND    THE    GRAY. 

"  The  blade  and  ball  that  slew  them 

Oh,  let  me  never  know  !" 
Then  equally  for  them  caring, 

She  laid  them  in  the  grave  : 
Although  the  one  was  erring, 

She  knew  they  both  were  brave. 
"All  bitter  memories  from  me," 

She  said,  "  I  put  away  ; 
I  always  loved  the  blue  coat, 

But  I  cannot  hate  the  gray." 

A  spirit  like  that  mother's 

Shall  in  our  bosoms  dwell ; 
No  longer  foes,  but  brothers, 

Are  they  who  fought  us  well. 
With  the  grim  cannon's  rattle 

Let  strife  and  hatred  cease  ; 
The  bravest  in  the  battle 

Are  manliest  in  peace. 
Let  every  bitter  memory 

With  the  war-cloud  fade  away  ; 
Although  we  love  the  blue  coat, 

We  will  not  hate  the  gray. 


THE  PROMISE. 


'33 


THE    PROMISE. 

'TWAS  December ;  cold  and  pallid  lay  the  dead  year  in 

its  shroud, 
Winter  snows  were  fast  descending,  winter  Vinds  were 

wailing  loud, 
Winter  seas  their  icy  billows  tossed  beneath  a  sky  of 

cloud. 
Out  amid  the  stormy  darkness,  on  the  waters  wild  and 

wide, 
See,  a  gallant  bark  is  struggling  with  the  angry  arctic 

tide! 
Now  she  mounts  the  noisy  surges  like  a  thing  of  life 

and  pride, 
Now  she  sinks  into  the  shadow  of  the  ocean's  briny 

wall ; 
Blinded,  battling,  still  she  presses  onward  through  the 

tempest's  pall, 
While  the  heaving  floods  around  her,  in  their  fury,  rise 

and  fall. 

Oh  !   the  hero-crew  that  mans  her !      Oh  !   the  hero- 
freight  she  bears ! 
Oh  !    the  hearts  that  beat  within  her,  and  the  noble 

purpose  theirs  ! 

12* 


134 


THE   PROMISE. 


Oh !  the  spirit  that,  undoubting,  death  and  danger 
fearless  dares ! 

Heaven  speeds  that  gallant  vessel,  sailing  from  Oppres 
sion's  realm ; 

Heaven  helps  her,  vainly  round  her  leap  the  waves  to 
overwhelm ; 

Vainly  howl  the  winds  above  her  :  God's  own  hand  is 
at  her  helm. 

"Pis  the  old  heroic  story,  need  we  tell  it  o'er  again  ? 

Lives  the  Pilgrim  Fathers'  glory  but  in  records  of  the 
pen? 

How  they  left  the  land  that  bore  them,  where  men  were 
no  longer  men  ? 

How,  where  proud  Atlantic's  waters  'gainst  her  western 
bounds  are  hurled, 

They  their  tyrant-hated  banner  to  the  wilderness  un 
furled 

O'er  the  holy,  haunted  birth-spot  of  a  new  hope  for  the 
world  ? 

Hoary  rock  !  that  first  was  trodden  by  the  free  feet  of 
our  sires ! 

On  thy  summit,  through  the  ages,  glows  the  light  of 
Freedom's  fires, 

At  thy  base  our  patriot  martyrs  strike  their  silver- 
sounding  lyres ; 

Round  thee,  shades  of  heroes  fallen  their  protecting 
vigils  hold, 


THE    PROMISE. 


135 


While  above  thee  flames  a  Promise,  and  in  shining 

words  of  gold, 
One  by  one,  the  mighty  meanings  of  its  prophecies 

unfold  ; 
And  the  trembling  nations,  reading,  gazing  in  each 

other's  eyes, 
Doubting,  fearing,  half  believing,  stand  with  looks  of 

wild  surprise, 
As  the  brightness  of  that  promise  blazes  in  the  Western 

skies. 

'Tis  a  promise  of  a  Future,  O  America,  for  thee, 

Of  a  Future  far  outshining  all  thy  Past  has  dared  to  be, 

When  shall  triumph  yet  supremer  Order,  Truth,  and 

Liberty. 
Thee,  my  country,  in  His  goodness  has  the  God  of 

nations  blessed ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  land  of  refuge  for  the  exiled  and 

oppressed, 
Thou  hast  clothed  the  cold  and  naked,  and  the  weary 

given  rest. 
Grandly  have  the  years  passed  for  thee  since  thou  hadst 

thy  stormy  birth, 
Sunny  skies  have  smiled  above  thee,  Plenty  poured  her 

fullness  forth, 
Foes  have  feared  and  friends  have  loved  thee  for  thy 

might  and  for  thy  worth. 


136  THE   PROMISE. 

But  a  prouder  day  awaits  thee, — Plymouth's  glad  apoc 
alypse 
Unturned   pages  of  thy  story  with  a  purer  radiance 

tips, 
And  thy  deeds  in  coming  ages  shall  thy  olden  fame 

eclipse. 
Even  now  the  Old  World  trembles  at  the  mention  of 

thy  name, 
While   her   sad,    down-trodden    millions,    'mid    their 

wretchedness  and  shame, 
Looking  towards  thee,   feel   their  bosoms -glow  with 

Freedom's  holy  flame. 
And  that  flame  shall  glow  yet  stronger,  till  their  bonds 

are  rent  apart, 
Till  the  peasant  claims  his  manhood,  and  his  quickened 

pulses  start 

With  the  fierce,  ecstatic  throbbing  of  a  new-made  free 
man's  heart. 
In  the  tyrant's  breast  has  entered  a  strange  fear  he  does 

not  own, 
In  his  midnight  dreams  he  seeth  visions  of  a  trampled    , 

throne, — 
In  the  harvest  of  the  whirlwind  he  shall  reap  as  he  has 

sown. 
Brighter  beams  the  radiant  promise,  all  the  wide  earth 

fills  with  light, 


THE    PROMISE. 


137 


Freedom's  rosy  morn  is  breaking  after  tyranny's  dark 

night, 
And  the  noontide  of  its  splendor  soon  will  burst  upon 

the  sight. 

Lo  !  Alas  !  the  promise  darkens, — blood  has  quenched 

its  golden  glow, 
Plymouth's  mound    in   gloom    is   shrouded,   and   her 

watch-fires  smoulder  low, 
While  from  all  the  land  are  rising  cries  of  mourning 

and  of  woe. 

Thus  it  endeth  !  like  a  comet  whirling  in  its  fiery  flight 
Fades   the   vision   of    our   glories    from   the    startled 

nations'  sight, 
And   the   transient    dawn   is   followed   by  a  deeper, 

darker  night. 

Once  again  the  aching  shackles  on  the  fainting  cap 
tive  rust, 
And    the    poor,    despairing    peasant    eats   again    his 

mouldy  crust, 
Feels  his  manhood  sink  within  him,  cowers  lower  in 

the  dust. 
On  his  blazoned  throne,  defiant,  sits  the  tyrant  as  of 

old; 
Once  again  his  vaulted  dungeons  their  complaining 

victims  hold, 


I38  THE   PROMISE. 

And  once  more  the  stone  of  bondage  'gainst  the  prison 
door  is  rolled. 

Fallen  !  fallen  !  black  the  ruins  where  our  ancient  bul 
warks  stood, 

Sheathed  the  blade  that  once  was  dripping,  gory,  in 
defense  of  good, 

Lost  the  high,  heroic  prestige  of  our  noble  nationhood. 

Fallen  !  fallen  !  Europe's  monarchs  clap  their  hands  in 
hellish  glee, 

And  with  gloating  eyes  look  downward  to  our  pit  of 
infamy, 

While  the  cruel  taunt  is  borne  us:  "  Who  will  hence 
forth  call  you  free?" 

Dark  the  night  of  gloom  around  us,  low  our  sun  of 

hope  has  waned. 
But  a  cry  is  loudly  ringing:    "Blood  and  tears  our 

freedom  gained, 
Blood  and  tears  shall  flow  yet  freer  and  that  freedom 

be  maintained. 
We  are  humbled,  but   not   fallen :   still  the  Lord  of 

Hosts  we  trust ; 
Traitor  hordes  are  gathered  round  us,  burning  with  a 

murder  lust, 
Traitor  hands  have  War's  red  gauntlet  thrown  defiant 

in  the  dust; 


THE   PROMISE.  I39 

We  accept  the  bloody  challenge,  we  will  meet  them  on 

the  field, 
Right's  broad  banner  floating  o'er  us,  His  strong  arm 

our  only  shield, 
With  our  country's  life  the  issue  we  are  not  the  first  to 

yield  !" 

Loud  the  clash  of  arms  resoundeth,  and  a  million 
marching  feet 

Stately  step*are  bravely  keeping  as  the  stirring  war- 
drums  beat, 

And  a  million  men  are  seeking  for  the  conflict's  fiercest 
heat. 

Forth  from  every  teeming  valley  swift  the  forming 
legions  pour ; 

Slaughter's  crimson  hand  is  lifted,  and  around  from 
shore  to  shore 

A  wide  continent  is  shaking  with  the  awful  tread  of 

War. 
******* 

When  the  stormy  waves  of  battle  in  the  after-days  are 
stilled, 

Not  in  vain  their  blood  our  heroes  on  a  thousand  fields 
have  spilled, 

For  the  Promise  to  us  given  shall  in  brightness  be  ful 
filled. 

March  n,  1864. 


I4o          THE    VICTORY  MONTH—  JULY,  1863. 


THE    VICTORY    MONTH— JULY,    1863. 

'TWAS  the  fairest  time  of  summer,  and  the  hillside  and 

the  plain 
Were  in  beauty  spangled  over  with  the  fields  of  ripened 

grain, 
And  the  ministers  of  Ceres  stood  with  open  hand  again. 

In  the  lowland,   on  the  upland,  busy  reapers  toiled 

away, 
And  the   harvest-fields  were  merry  with  their  voices 

glad  and  gay, 
As  they  worked  and  sang  together  through  the  long, 

warm  summer  day. 

Happy  children  in  the  meadows  tossed  the  scented  hay 

about, 
Or  they   gayly  chased  each   other  o'er  the  fields  in 

playful  rout, 
While  the  shaded  hills  re-echoed  their  laughter  and 

their  shout. 


THE    VICTORY  MONTH— JULY,  1863.         I4I 

But  a  gloom  fell  on  the  reapers,  and  they  paused  amid 

their  toil, 
For   the   Southern    breezes  bore  them   mutterings  of 

strange  turmoil, 
And  'twas  said  that  an  invader  was  about  to  cross  their 

soil. 

Even  as  they  paused  and  listened,  from  the  dark  Po 
tomac's  shore 

Came  the  awful  rush  of  column,  with  their  fronts  of 
war, 

And  a  strange  new  flag  was  waving  where  it  never 
waved  before. 

Then  our  proudest  cities  trembled,  and   the   people 

shook  with  fear, 
As  the  cannon's  solemn  booming  fell  upon  the  startled 

ear, 
And  the  dust-cloud  upward  rolling  told  the  foe  was 

coming  near. 

/ 

Drum  and  bugle  loud  were  sounding  far  and  wide  their 

fierce  alarms, 
And  their  warning  notes  went  ringing  o'er  the  villages 

and  farms ; 
Timid  men  stood  still  in  terror,  and  the  daring  rushed 

to  arms. 

13 


I42          THE    VICTORY  MONTH— JULY,  1863. 

Onward  went  the  grim  invaders,  like' a  wolf  that  seeks 

its  prey, 
Till  they  met  our  own  brave  legions  pressing  forward 

to  the  fray ; 
See,  they  grapple  in  the  battle  !     God  assist  the  Right 

to-day ! 

Rose  and  fell  the  tide  of  conflict,  till  our  glorious  natal 

day 
Saw  the  host  that  marched  to  spoil  us  shorn  of  all  its 

proud  array ; 
And  the  broken  bands  of  foemen  down  the  valleys  fled 

away. 

Then  the  notes  of  triumph,  swelling  o'er  the  land  from 
main  to  main, 

Filled  the  nation's  heart  with  gladness, — bade  it  beat 
with  hope  again ; 

Hark  !  a  voice  from  out  the  distance  catches  and  pro 
longs  the  strain  ! 

Spoke  the  lordly  Mississippi:   "From  my  sources  to 

the  sea, 
On  the  boasted  rebel  ramparts,  stand  the  soldiers  of 

the  free, 
And  the  dear  old  flag  is  waving  where  the  traitors  used 

to  be." 


THE    VICTORY  MONTH—  JULY,  1863.         I43 

From  the  wilds  of  far  Arkansas,  from  the  hills  of  Ten 
nessee, 

Rolled  the  grand,  inspiring  chorus  of  this  month  of 
jubilee, 

Till  the  very  air  was  burdened  with  the  shouts  of  vic 
tory. 

From  her  borders,  proud  Ohio  sent  her  greetings  with 

the  rest : 
"  He  who  dared,  with  fire  and  plunder,  place  his  foot 

upon  my  breast, 
I  have  humbled,  and  my  prison  holds  the  Terror  of 

the  West." 

With  our  nation's  story  written  on  the  highest  scroll  of 

fame, 
Sing  unto  the  God  of  Battles  praises  to  His  mighty 

name. 
He  who  watched  our  fathers  over,  watches  over  us  the 

same. 


144 


MY  COUNTRY. 


MY    COUNTRY. 

OH  !  my  country  !  my  fair  country  !  blue  and  smiling 
are  thy  skies, 

O'er  many  a  distant  ocean  free  thy  starry  banner  flies, 

And  a  hundred  beauteous  cities  from  thy  bosom  broad 
uprise ; 

Mighty  forests  bend  above  thee,  shining  rivers  thread 
the  plain, 

Rolling  down  and  down  forever  to  the  dark  and  toss 
ing  main, 

Where  thy  breezes  lift  and  bear  them  to  their  sources 
back  again ; 

Mountain  breasts  have  for  thee  opened,  with  their 
hidden  stores  of  gold, 

Rainbow  showers,  in  sweet  baptism,  have  descended 
on  thy  mould, 

Thou  hast  sown,  and  in  thy  harvest  gathered  in  a  hun 
dred  fold ; 

From  the  harbors  of  Atlantic,  where  thy  commerce 
anchor  drops, 

Back  thy  path  of  empire  lengthens,  and  its  proud  march 
only  stops 

Where  thy  eagles  flap  their  pinions  on  Pacific's  moun 
tain  tops ; 


MY  COUNTRY. 


145 


In  defense  of  Right  and  Freedom  time  has  seen  thy 

blade  drip  gory; 
Fame  is  thine ;  let  the  wide  world  search  the  annals  of 

its  glory, 
Not  a  prouder  one  will  find  than  thine  own  heroic 

story. 
Oh  !    my  country !    my  fair  country  !    blest  of  nature 

and  of  Heaven  ! 
May  the  dark  clouds  o'er  thee  lowering  soon  afar  from 

thee  be  driven  ! 
May  thy  bitter  cup  cease  flowing  and  the  balm  of  peace 

be  given  ! 

Over  every  hill  and  valley,  from  the  curling  Mexic  wave 
To  the  far  shores  that  the  waters  of  thy  brineless  oceans 

lave, 
May  His  mighty  arm  uplifted,  as  of  old,  unite  and 

save! 
Land  of  noble  sires  and  children  of  the  fearless  and 

the  free  ! 
Ruthless  foes  may  fierce  assail  thee,  yet  thy  triumph 

still  must  be, 
And  the  future  holds  in  waiting  some  great  destiny  for 

thee. 


146  THE    VIRGINIA   HOMESTEAD. 


THE    VIRGINIA    HOMESTEAD. 

SOFTLY  is  the  river  flowing  by  the  old  homestead  to 
night, 

Bright  the  watching  stars  are  glowing,  with  a  mellow, 
old-time  light ; 

Resting  o'er  the  gliding  waters,  white  the  shrouding 
vapors  lie, 

And  the  distant  woods  are  solemn  with  the  night-bird's 
mournful  cry. 

By  the  bending  trees  half  hidden,  the  old  mansion-house 
is  seen ; 

O'er  its  gables  climbs  the  ivy  with  its  graceful  wreaths 
of  green ; 

But  no  smoke  curls  from  the  chimney,  and  no  lights 
gleam  through  the  panes, 

Round,  and  in  the  ancient  building,  desolation's  still 
ness  reigns. 

Where  the  fountain  once  was  playing,  weed  and  thorn 

have  rankly  grown, 
And  along  the  garden  borders,  that  no  caring  hand 

have  known, 


THE    VIRGINIA    HOMESTEAD.  I47 

Wild  grass  springs,  and  briers  familiar  rudely  reach  their 

red  arms  wide, 
And  the  thistle  bold  is  springing  where  the  timid  flowers 

have  died. 

Ragged  vines  drop  from  the  arbors,  and  the  open  court 
yard  gate, 

On  its  hinges  damp  and  rusted,  idly  hangs  its  broken 
weight. 

Where  the  red  brick  wall  has  fallen,  moss  and  mould 
are  thick  and  gray ; 

Everywhere  the  signs  are  written  of  the  sure  work  of 
decay. 

• 

All  without  is  gloom  and   sadness;    and  within  the 

lonely  hall 
Moonbeams,  shimmering  through  the  window,  stand 

like  ghosts  along  the  wall, 
While  from  out  the  farther  corner,  where  the  shadows 

hover  thick, 
Slow  and  solemn,  slow  and  solemn,  comes  the  great 

clock's  stately  tick. 

And  one  sad  ear  to  it  listens ;  every  dear  one  from  him 

gone, 
Sits  an  old  man  in  the  darkness,  as  the  weary  hours 

drag  on. 


148  THE    VIRGINIA   HOMESTEAD. 

On  his  hand  his  brow  is  resting,  down  his  cheeks  the 

tear-drops  start, 
Lone,  despairing,  he  is  weeping  in  his  bitterness  of  heart. 

His  was  once  a  happy  household  ;  joy  a  wife's  sweet 

presence  made, 
And  three  sons  to  noble  manhood  grew  beneath  the 

home  trees'  shade. 
Peace  was  his,  till  one  red  spring-time  brought  with  it 

war's  fierce  alarms, 
And  the  brothers  left  the  homestead  for  the  clanging 

field  of  arms. 

Soon  they  joined  the  rebel  banner ;  one  fell  early  in 

the  strife, 
And  another's  footsteps  followed  the  wild  music  of  the 

fife 
Till  the  eagles  graced  his  shoulders;  but  he  wore  them 

scarce  a  day 
Ere  Antietam's  field  of  slaughter  drank  his  young  life's 

blood  away. 

In  a  grassy  dell  they  laid  him,  'neath  September's 
fading  leaf, 

And  the  sad  tale,  told  his  mother,  broke  her  woman- 
heart  with  grief. 


THE    VIRGINIA   HOMESTEAD. 


149 


And  the  other, — a  last  letter,  that  the  father's  tear- 
dimmed  eyes 

Read  with  fearing  haste  this  evening,  open  on  the  table 
lies. 

"I  am  hit  at  last,  dear  father ;  I  am  cold  and  faint  to 
night, 

And  in  this,  my  dying  moment,  I  have  doubted  if 
we're  right ; 

I  have  fought  the  old  flag  bravely,  but  this  late  reflec 
tion  came, 

And  I  fear  what  I've  called  glory  is  but  blackest  crime 
and  shame. 

"Do  not  blame  me  :  I  see  clearly,  and  I  love  Virginia 

still, 
But  to-night  my  heart  refuses  with  its  old  mad  hate  to 

thrill ; 
When  you  told  me  they  had  wronged  her,  for  her  sake 

my  sword  I  drew, 
But  our  eyes  are  blind  with  passion,  and  we  know  not 

what  we  do. ' ' 

Childless,  is  the  proud  man  thinking  how  he  loved  too 

well  his  State, 
As  in  sackcloth  and  in  ashes  he  is  mourning  o'er  her 

fate  ; 


I5o  BREAK  THE   NEWS   GENTLY. 

In  the  full  cup  of  her  sorrow  has  his  sorrow  mingled 

in,— 
Darkly  hast  thou  sinned,  Virginia,  and  art  suffering  for 

thy  sin  ! 

May,  1864. 


BREAK    THE    NEWS    GENTLY. 

BREAK  the  news  gently, — 

Charlie  is  dead, 
Bullet  and  sabre  wounds 

On  his  young  head. 
Lightly  the  gory  locks 

On  his  brow  press; 
Death  has  one  hero  more, 

Life  has  one  less. 

It  was  but  yesterday 

That  he  wrote  home  : 
' '  Look  for  me,  mother  dear, 

I  will  soon  come. 
Sad  you  have  waiting  been 

All  these  long  years  ; 
Let  your  hopes  triumph  now 

Over  your  fears. 


BREAK  THE  NEWS   GENTLY. 

"  Dark  is  war's  thunder-cloud  ; 

Safe  from  its  track 
Soon  you  will,  mother  dear, 

Welcome  me  back. 
We  may  now  think  of  home, 

Colonel  White  says, 
For  we  have  yet  to  serve 

Only  two  days." 

Only  two  days  to  serve  ! 

Two  days  of  strife  ! 
Ah  !  in  much  shorter  time 

Bullets  take  life. 
Ere  the  next  sunset  flamed 

Lurid  and  red, 
Redder,  with  mangled  brow, 

Charlie  lay  dead. 

Break  gently  the  sad  news 

That  you  impart, 
Or  you  may  also  break 

A  human  heart. 
Break  the  news  gently, 

Charlie  is  dead ; 
Damp  lie  the  battle-clods 

Over  his  head. 


152 


THEIR    GRAVES. 

Charlie,  so  dutiful, 

Handsome,  and  brave  ; 
And  has  his  valor  won 

Only  a  grave  ? 
Has  he  been  spared  so  long 

Only  for  this  ? 
Must  the  cruel  bullet's  touch 

Be  his  last  kiss? 

And  the  poor,  childless  one, — 

Long  she  will  wait, 
Eagerly,  anxiously, 

Home  by  the  gate. 
Ah  !  who  will  tell  her  of 

All  she  must  know  ? 
Gracious  God  pity  her 

There  in  her  woe  ! 


THEIR    GRAVES. 

RAISE  no  mausoleum  where 
Our  dead  braves  are  sleeping ; 

Holds  a  grateful  nation  their 
Memory  in  keeping. 


THEIR    GRAVES. 

Lay  them  in  the  valleys  low, 

By  the  rolling  river, 
Chanting  dirges  in  its  flow 

Ever  and  forever. 

Lay  them  where  the  sweetest  flowers 

Earliest  are  springing, 
And  the  birds  from  sunny  bowers 

Music  flights  are  winging. 
Lay  them  where  the  spring  will  hide 

Each  low  mound  with  grasses, 
Where  the  rose  will  last  have  died 

As  the  winter  passes ; 

On  the  hillside,  by  the  sea, 

Where  they've  camped  or  battled ; 
Where  their  cheers  rang  loud  and  free, 

Or  their  cannon  rattled. 
Let  their  lonely  graves  be  made 

In  some  distant  wildwood ; 
Or  beneath  the  home-tree's  shade 

Where  they  played  in  childhood. 

Lay  them,  in  their  blue  coats  dress'd, 
Where  their  comrades  found  them, 

With  the  sword  upon  the  breast, 
And  the  flag  around  them. 


154 


SLA  VER  Y. 

Place  the  knapsack  'neath  the  head, 

'Tis  a  downy  pillow, 
And  let  grow,  above  the  dead, 

Cypress-tree  arid  willow. 

Hew  no  shaft  and  lay  no  stone, 

Raise  no  sculptured  column, ' 
The  wide  land  is  all  their  own, — 

Holy,  haunted,  solemn. 
Let  the  wild  winds  o'er  them  shout, 

And  the  songsters  warble ; 
Green  their  fame  shall  live  without 

Monumental  marble. 


SLAVERY. 

THE  blackest  crime  that  earth  has  known  ! 

The  foulest  sin  that  hell  can  own ! 

A  monstrous  thing  more  monstrous  grown  ! 

A  curse  to  master  and  to  man  ! 
A  blight  to  all  within  its  span  ! 
To  right  a  foe,  to  good  a  ban  ! 


SLA  VER  Y. 

Can  human  flesh  be  changed  for  gold  ? 
Can  human  hearts  be  bought  and  sold  ? 
Can  Christian  men  such  lucre  hold  ? 

The  brute  is  man's,  the  man  is  God's, 
The  meanest  hind  that  meanly  plods 
Was  never  born  for  servile  rods  ! 

How  long,  O  Time,  must  freedom  be 

With  us  the  vilest  mockery  ? 

How  long  must  we  stand  by  and  see 

Our  eagles  perch  with  drooping  wing, 
Our  country's  right  hand  withering, 
Because  of  this  accursed  thing  ? 

If  there  is  power  in  Heaven's  might, 
If  day  is  brighter  than  the  night, 
If  wrong  is  wrong,  and  right  is  right, 
This  sin  must  pass  from  human  sight ! 


155 


I56  LINCOLN  MONUMENT. 


LINCOLN    MONUMENT. 

YES,  let  the  sacred  pile  arise 
In  memory  of  our  fallen  One ; 

His  name  should  be  before  men's  eyes, 
Familiar  as  the  beaming  sun. 

Freedom's  great  cause  he  well  has  served, 
And  loosened  all  the  painful  bands, 

And  surely  he  has  well  deserved 
This  little  tribute  at  our  hands. 

Build  up  the  consecrated  stone, 
And  bid  the  marble  letters  tell, 

Of  all  the  martyrs  earth  hath  known 
Few  ever  proved  their  faith  so  well. 

Then  lay  the  shaft,  though  vainly  we 

His  fame  perpetuate  by  art ; 
His  truest  monument  will  be 

Within  a  loving  people's  heart. 


AFTER   THE    WAR. 


AFTER    THE    WAR. 

THE    OLD    FARMER   TO  HIS  .WIFE. 

COME  out  into  the  sunshine,  wife,  come  out  into  the 

May, 
And  let  us  sit  with  happy  hearts  here  in  the  happy 

day. 
A  year  ago  we  hardly  dared  to  hope  the  time  would 

come 
When  we  our  absent  boys  should  see  all  safe  again  at 

home. 

Though  they  so  long  unhurt  had  stood  and  fought  be 
fore  the  foe, 
We  knew  not  in  what  hour  on  them  and  us  would  fall 

the  blow ; 

For  in  the  distant  South,  beneath  the  unfamiliar  flowers, 
Lay  neighbors'  sons  in  battle  slain,  and  what  should 

keep  us  ours  ? 
But  still  they  wrote  us  they  were  safe, — to  hear  it  made 

us  glad ; 
And  though  we  never  could  be  gay,  we  were  not  always 

sad; 

14* 


158  AFTER    THE    WAR. 

But  as  each  spring  toward  Richmond's  walls  our  men 

were  led  once  more, 
And  the  great  triumph  that  must  come  looked  nearer 

than  before, 
We  tried  to  keep  the  parents'  fear  below  the  patriot's 

pride, 
And  willing  be  to  have  them  there  upon  the  righteous 

side. 

Ah  !  those  were  gloomy  days,  dear  wife ;  do  you  re 
member  now 
How  hard  it  was  to  always  keep  the  shadows  from  your 

brow? 
Once,  half-way  in  a  fierce  campaign,  when  Harry  sent 

us  word 
That  he  had  now  his  company  and  wore  a  captain's 

sword, 
I'm  sure  to  hear  it  you  were  proud,  and  yet  you  gave  a 

sigh, 
And  said  that  captains  were  as  like  as  privates  were  to 

die; 

And  when,  soon  afterwards,  we  heard  John  was  pro 
moted  too, 
You  sadly  said  he  might  be  dead  ere  this  for  all  we 

knew. 

But  as  the  cruel  strife  went  on  and  left  us  still  our  own, 
We  found  that  sweet  within  our  breasts  a  timid  hope 

had  grown ; 


AFTER    THE    WAR. 


159 


Perhaps  their  precious  blood,  we  thought,  our  land  will 
not  require, 

But  their  strong  arms  above,  to  aid  in  quenching  trea 
son's  fire ; 

And  when  at  last  the  victory  came  that  we,  in  faith,  so 
long 

Had  waited  for,  no  wail  for  them  blent  with  our  grate 
ful  song. 

Why  should  it  be,  while  neighbor  Brown  of  his  four 
sons  lost  all, 

And  neighbor  Wilton  two  of  three,  that  none  of  ours 
should  fall  ? 

But  safely  to  us  be  restored  well  as  they  left,  and  sound, 

Excepting  Harry's  broken  wrist, — the  two  without  a 
wound  ! 

Now,  there  is  Will,  I  do  believe  he'd  just  as  lief  as  not 

Bear  on  his  handsome  face  the  mark  of  rebel  blade  or 
shot; 

And  John  says  he  is  half  ashamed  to  come  out  of  the  war 

With  both  his  arms  and  both  his  legs  and  not  a  single 
scar  ! 

But  can  we  be  too  thankful,  wife,  to  have  them  as  they 
are? 

You  know  that  while  they  were  away  one  constant  fear 
we  shared 

Was  that,  although  our  children's  lives  in  battle  might 
be  spared, 


160  AFTER    THE    WAR. 

Forever  crippled  one  or  more  might   unto  us  come 

back, 
As    do    so    many    gallant    men    who    follow    glory's 

track. 

To  give  the  strong,  young  limb  is  hard,  even  for  coun 
try's  sake, — 
Thank  God  !  such  sacrifice  our  boys  were  never  called 

to  make. 
And  now  they  all  are  here  at  home ;  it  seems  so  strange 

to  me 
To  have  them  working  on  the  farm  just  as  they  used  to 

be. 
This  morning,  when  I  first  awoke,  I  felt  so  stiff  and 

old, 
I  wondered  how  much  longer  I  the  plow  could  guide 

and  hold, 
.Forgetting  that  their  younger  hands  would  give  my 

own  relief, 
That  I  no  more  need  sow  the  seed  and  bind  the  harvest 

sheaf. 

Last  evening,  as  John  and  I  were  in  the  corner  lot, 
He  asked,  "Who  drew  this  furrow  here, — you,  father, 

did  you  not?" 
I  smiled  him  "Yes,"  and  well  I  knew  how  gay  had 

been  his  laugh 
Had  either  Will  or  Harry  drawn  one  there  so  crooked 

half. 


AFTER    THE    WAR.  161 

He  knew  the  old  man's  eyes  were  dim,  the  old  man's 

sight  was  weak, — 
I  thought  I  saw  a  tear-drop  shine  a  moment  on  his 

cheek, — 
And  then  he  said,  "You've  worked  too  hard  while  we 

have  been  away, 

But  now  I  promise  you  shall  have  a  long,  long  holi 
day." 
"And  I  cannot  be  sorry,  wife,  that  day  has  come  at 

last, 
I  feel  these  later  years  of  toil  have  made  me  old  too 

fast; 

Help  was  so  hard  to  get,  you  know,  that  I  was  oft  alone, 
And  then  somehow  there  always  seemed  so  much  that 

must  be  done, 

And  weeds  would  grow  so  fast  around,  I  got  discour 
aged  most ; 
But  better  twenty  crops  of  weeds  than  e'en  a  skirmish 

lost. 
And  while  a  nation  was  to  save  and  freedom's  fight 

unwon, 
What  boy  of  ours  should  wield  a  hoe  if  he  could  bear 

a  gun? 
But  now  the  weary  years  are  gone;  oh  !  well  may -we 

rejoice ! 
The  silent  walls  have  heard  again  each  dear,  familiar 

voice, 


1 62  CONTRASTS. 

The  absent  soldier-feet  have  trod  once  more  the  fields 

and  hearth, 
And  ours  is  now  a  joyful  home  if  there  is  one  on 

earth. 
So,  come  into  the  sunshine,  wife,  come  out  into  the 

May, 
And  let  us  sit  with  happy  hearts  here  in  the  happy  day. 


CONTRASTS. 


FIVE  times  we  watched  the  spring-tide  pass, 
Dropping  its  violets  in  the  grass, 
Bringing  to  mountain  and  meadow  shore 
The  same  sweet  life  it  had  brought  before. 
As  fresh  as  creation's  seventh  day 
The  earth  in  its  new-born  beauty  lay, 
Above  us  the  blue,  beneath  us  the  green, 
With  the  bounteous  sunshine  poured  between. 
'But  what  to  us  were  the  bloom  and  light  ? 
Over  our  hearts  gloomed  a  winter  night, 
Into  our  homes  a  presence  had  come 
And  bidden  the  voice  of  mirth  be  dumb  ; 


CONTRASTS.  163 

Out  of  our  homes  a  presence  had  gone, — 

Fathers  and  brothers,  an  army  as  one, 

And  ere  the  last  storm  blew  white  from  the  north 

We  saw  them  march  to  the  battle  forth, 

And  the  earliest  flowers  could  scarcely  bud 

Before  they  were  wet  with  a  dew  of  blood. 

And  the  slow,  sad  winds  swelled  up  from  the  south, 

Heavy  with  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth. 

n. 

But  a  glad  change  came, — no  more  in  fear 
We  wait  while  the  spring  renews  the  year. 
The  roll  of  drums  no  longer  we  hear, 
The  call  to  arms  and  the  martial  tread, 
But  the  peaceful  hum  of  toil  instead. 
No  more  to  the  glowing  summer  air 
The  torch  of  the  raider  adds  its  glare. 
The  autumn  comes  like  a  glorious  ghost, 
But  its  banners  herald  no  hostile  host. 
The  white  tents  of  winter  alone  we  see 
Where  those  of  the  soldier  used  to  be. 
The  frozen  earth  hears  no  charging  tramp, 
No  sentry  watches  the  chilly  camp. 
Oh,  if  war  and  its  woes  we  could  but  say 
Have  passed  forever  from  earth  away  ! 
In  the  calms  of  peace  sometimes  we  note 
The  spiders'  webs  in  the  cannon's  throat. 


1 64  CONTRASTS. 

Ah  !  peace  itself,  oft  as  frail  as  they, 

May  be  in  a  moment  blown  away ; 

For  still  the  sword  guards  throne  and  state, 

And  the  idle  batteries  grimly  wait, 

Ready  their  ruin  red  to  pour 

O'er  blue  sea  wave  and  prosperous  shore. 

But  long,  my  country,  may  it  be 

Ere  the  burst  of  battle  startle  thee. 

Till  the  last,  last  hope  of  peace  is  gone, 

Never  again  be  thy  good  sword  drawn  ; 

But  to  bloodless  victories  lead  the  way, 

As  the  great  sun  leads  the  hours  of  day. 

Then  the  happy  nations,  bright  as  they, 

Shall  step  by  step  toward  heaven  advance, 

Leaving  their  cruel  ignorance 

Dim  behind,  like  a  dream  of  night 

Rayed  across  by  the  morning  light. 

Then  civilization  shall  indeed 

Be  a  glorious  fact, — 'tis  now  a  need  ! 


THE   NAMELESS    GRAVE. 


THE    NAMELESS    GRAVE. 

APART  from  all  the  rest  'twas  made, 

In  a  neglected  corner ; 
It  looked  as  if  who  there  was  laid 

Had  died  without  a  mourner. 
No  date  was  on  the  small  red  stone 

That  had  commenced  to  crumble ; 
No  line  by  which  it  might  be  known 

Who  filled  that  mound  so  humble. 

Above  the  other  graves  was  seen 

The  marble  gleaming  whitely ; 
This  was  not  even  clothed  with  green, 

But  briery  and  unsightly. 
The  barren  moss  had  crept  across 

In  cold,  dead  gray  to  hide  it; 
No  pleasant  tree  to  blow  there  was, 

No  flower  to  smile  beside  it. 

With  difficult  and  cautious  tread 

No  certain  path  led  to  it ; 
'Twas  plain  no  mourner  sought  that  bed 

With  frequent  tears  to  dew  it. 


r 66  THE   NAMELESS   GRAVE. 

I  left  the  spot,  my  spirit  sad 
To  think  that  one  could  perish, 

As  that  forgotten  mortal  had, 
And  leave  no  thing  to  cherish. 

Oh,  where  is  he  who  would  not  have, 

When  clay  enfolds  his  coffin, 
Some  hand  to  keep  alive  his  grave, 

Some  tongue  to  name  him  often  ? 
Ah  !  it  is  pleasant  but  to  know, 

When  death  has  sealed  our  lashes, 
Some  sparks  of  memory  yet  will  glow 

Above  our  fireless  ashes. 

When  I  at  last  this  form  resign 

To  be  with  earth  reblended, 
Unlike  that  nameless  grave  be  mine, 

At  least  by  nature  tended. 
To  bloomless  vegetation  dull 

Let  not  my  dust  be  given, 
But  to  some  flower  beautiful, 

Or  glad  green  tree  of  heaven. 


THE   OLD  MILL. 


THE    OLD    MILL. 

Go  you  to  Braineton  road,  and  wind 

Where  it  will  lead  you  down  the  hill, 
And  suddenly  it  ends,  you  find, 

Before  an  ancient  country  mill. 
For  sixty  years  its  walls  have  been 

In  rain  and  sunshine  growing  gray, 
And  all  its  roof  with  moss  is  green 

As  any  meadow  is  in  May. 
Wide  open  hangs  the  dusty  door, 

And  swings  and  trembles  in  the  sound 
Of  noisy  wheels  that  have  for  more 

Than  fifty  years  the  harvest  ground, 
Through  summer's  heat,  through  winter's  cold, 
As  steady  as  the  seasons  rolled. 

Oh  !  often  I  with  playmate  band, 

In  summer  days  let  loose  from  school, 
Have  turned  aside  to  come  and  stand 

And  hear  the  great  wheels  splashing  cool ! 
And  the  old  miller  kind,  who  knew 

Well  what  our  childish  lips  would  ask, 
Sometimes  would  come  and  lead  us  through 

The  place  when  he  could  leave  his  task. 


1 68  THE    OLD   MILL. 

A  gentle,  good  old  man  was  he ; 

But  once  we  missed  his  snowy  head, 
And  when  we  asked  where  he  might  be, 

With  awe  we  heard  that  he  was  dead. 
But  round  and  round,  and  round  and  round, 
The  wheels  still  whirled  with  busy  sound. 

And  often  now  around  the  mill 

In  pleasant  hours  I  love  to  stray, 
For  nature  chiefly  rules  there  still, 

And  has  her  sweet,  unfettered  way. 
The  brook  calls  gayly  from  its  bed, 

The  birds  join  in  with  joyous  tune, 
And  the  close  cedars  o'er  my  head 

A  twilight  soft  make  of  the  noon. 
But  as  my  brow,  in  daytime  dreams, 

Against  the  grassy  sod  I  press, 
A  voice  falls  on  my  ear  and  seems 

To  chide  me  for  my  idleness, 
As  round  and  round,  and  round  and  round, 
The  wheels  are  whirled  with  busy  sound. 

I  linger  where  the  water  steals 
Along  the  alders  dark  and  slow, 

To  tread  with  silver  feet  the  wheels, 
Then  join  its  sister  floods  below. 


THE    OLD  MILL. 

I  watch  it  through  the  hazels  wild 

Glide  in  and  out  like  some  gay  elf, 
And  like  at  play  a  single  child, 

I  hear  it  talking  to  itself. 
O'er  the  brown  arches  of  the  bridge 

I  hear  the  happy  swallows  call ; 
The  robins  hopping  by  the  hedge, 

And  the  old  mill  above  them  all, 
As  round  and  round,  and  round  and  round. 
Its  wheels  are  whirled  with  busy  sound. 

And  when  the  frosts  have  touched  the  hill, 

Until  with  fire  it  seems  to  blaze, 
Again  I  seek  the  lonely  mill, 

Dim  standing  in  the  purple  haze. 
Like  wounded  birds,  the  autumn  leaves 

The  smoky  air  are  falling  through, 
And  in  my  breast  my  spirit  grieves 

To  think  that  friends  are  falling  too. 
For  of  the  merry  group  that  played 

Where  yonder  wheels  revolving  sweep, 
Five  have  I  seen  in  darkness  laid, 

To  take  their  last,  eternal  sleep. 

And  so  it  is  in  life,  I  say ; 

Friends  one  by  one  around  us  drop, 
15* 


169 


170 


ONL  Y  A    LITTLE    WHILE. 

And  they  are  gone  and  we  are  gray, 

And  yet  Time's  wheels  can  never  stop. 
In  vain  a  moment's  pause  we  crave ; 

Still  ever,  ever  turn  they  must. 
Till,  rolling  swift  across  the  grave, 

They  grind  our  breathless  forms  to  dust. 
The  world  grows  old,  the  frost  of  years 

Is  gathering  white  upon  its  head  ; 
Its  children  toil  in  pain  and  tears, 

Or  slumber  sweetly  with  the  dead, 
•  While  round  and  round,  and  round  and  round, 
Time's  wheels  still  turn  with  ceaseless  sound. 


ONLY    A    LITTLE    WHILE. 

ONLY  a  little  while,— 
A  gasp  of  feeble  breath, 

A  smile,  a  sigh,  and  then — 
Death — death  ! 

•Only  a  little  while, — 

A  few  things  done  and  said, 
And  heart  and  hand  will  be 
Dead — dead ! 


ONL  Y  A    LITTLE    WHILE.      . 

Only  a  little  while, — 

A  transient,  troubled  day, 

Then  'neath  the  coffin  lid, 
Clay — clay  ! 

Only  a  little  while, — 

A  gleam,  a  blush  of  light, 

Then,  o'er  our  earthly  skies, 
Night — night ! 

Only  a  little  while, — 
Let  us  but  do  our  best, 

The  end  of  all  shall  be 
Rest — rest ! 

Only  a  little  while, — 

And  peace  will  follow  strife  ; 
And  we  through  death  shall  find 

Life— life  ! 


171 


172  WORK. 


WORK. 

SIT  not  with  folded  hands  and  wait 

For  what  the  day  may  bring ; 
Did  men  more  earnest  act,  then  fate 
*     Were  less  a  dreaded  thing. 

The  coward  only  is  deterred 

By  destiny's  weak  rules  ; 
Chance  is  a  name,  and  luck  a  word 

That's  known  alone  to  fools. 

On  fortune's  sea  think  not  to  swim 

Atop  of  every  wave, 
But  keep  thy  life-bark  well  in  trim, 

Be  patient  and  be  brave  ! 

For  courage  is  a  talisman 
Most  potent  and  most  true ; 

And  patience — ask  not  what  she  can, 
But  what  she  can  not  do. 

The  work  must  be  in  part  thy  own 
If  thou  wouldst  wear  the  crown, 

Prayer  and  fast  will  not  alone 
Suffice  to  bring  it  down. 


A   RHYME    OF  CHEER. 


173 


A    RHYME    OF    CHEER. 

OH,  friends !  what  works  are  by  us  done 
In  gloom  that  are  our  gaining? 

What  triumphs  have  we  ever  won 
By  sighing  and  complaining? 

Why  should  we,  when  the  tempest  shrouds, 

Sit  down  in  vain  repining, 
Forgetting  that,  above  the  clouds, 

The  heavens  still  are  shining  ? 

Unthinking  that  if  it  were  not 

For  dark  and  rainy  hours 
The  sunshine,  falling  fierce  and  hot, 

Would  wither  all  the  flowers. 

It  may  be  sad  truth  when  we  say 

That  evil  times  have  found  us, 
But  surely  night  cannot  alway 

Its  shadows  hold  around  us. 

Let  us  look  up,  where,  bright  above, 
Hope's  morning  star  is  gleaming, 

Cheer  each  faint  heart  with  words  of  love,  • 
And  waken  from  our  dreaming. 


174 


THE    WORLD  AND   I. 

And  let  us  not  anticipate 

Our  future  cares  and  sorrows, 

But  live  through  dark  to-days,  and  wait 
The  dawn  of  bright  to-morrows. 

Nor  grasp  for  joys  that  they  may  bring 
With  eagerness  o'erweening, 

Remembering  that  the  brightest  spring 
May  slowest  be  in  greening. 


THE    WORLD    AND    I. 

THE  world  and  I  have  been  of  late 

Content  to  live  and  move  apart  ; 
We  do  not  bear  each  other  hate, 

And  yet  have  little  love  at  heart. 
We  ne'er  were  friends,  and  since  P  told 

Its  pleasure  is  but  pleasant  pain, 
It  has  been  pleased  to  call  me  cold, 

And  I,  in  turn,  have  called  it  vain. 

The  princes  of  successful  trade, 
And  fashion's  giddy  throngs,  I  see 

Pass  by,  in  all  their  proud  parade, 
Nor  deign  to  cast  a  glance  at  me. 


THE    WORLD  AND   I. 


'75 


I  do  not  envy  them  their  gold  ; 

Their  pomp  and  glitter  scarce  could  please  ; 
For,  easier  won  and  kept,  I  hold 

That  there  are  better  things  than  these. 

Those  who  are  titled  great  I  hear 

The  fickle,  noisy  crowds  applaud  ; 
Ah  me  !  they  often  do,  I  fear, 

Think  more  of  men  and  less  of  God. 
With  pride  the  warrior's  brow  receives 

The  laurel  wreath  ;  but  I,  with  pain, 
Look  only  where,  upon  its  leaves, 

A  brother's  blood  has  left  its  stain  ! 

I  have  ambition  in  my  breast, — 

But  it  is  not  for  power  and  fame ; 
I  walk  in  silence  from  the  rest, 

And  humbly  bear  my  humble  name. 
I  see  the  sails  of  navies  spread, 

I  see  the  smoke  of  cities  curled  ; 
But  neither  is  above  my  head, 

And  what  am  I  to  all  the  world  ? 

I  dwell  as  by  a  quiet  bay : 

I  hear  the  outside  billows  roar ; 
But  well  I  know  that  never  they 

Can  break  against  my  peaceful  shore. 


1 76  "HOME  AND  ABROAD." 

And  if  my  walls  shut  in  sweet  sights 
The  world  can  never  hope  to  see, 

And  I've  no  share  in  its  delights, 
Oh,  what  is  all  the  world  to  me  ? 


"HOME    AND    ABROAD." 

INSCRIBED  TO  W.  P.  T. 

THE  heart  of  him  who  loves  to  roam 

O'er  strange,  new  lands  and  stormy  brine, 

But  still  keeps  tender  thoughts  of  home, 
Is  kin  to  mine. 

And  him  whose  great  joy  is  to  let 

At  his  own  hearth  his  wandering  end, 

Although  we  never  may  have  met, 
I  call  my  friend. 

Thou'st  stood  where  lowly  Afric'  weeps 

Alone  upon  her  desert  sands, 
And  in  the  mocking  ocean  steeps 

Her  poor,  bound  hands. 


"HOME  AND  ABROAD."  177 

By  river  fair,  by  mount  and  main, 

Imperial  Europe  thou  hast  trod ; 
On  many  a  history-haunted  plain 

And  classic  sod. 

But  whether  dust  is  on  thy  feet, 
Or  they  are  wet  with  ocean's  foam, 

Still  mingles  with  thy  song  that  sweet 
Refrain  of  home. 

Beneath  those  alien  skies  to  kneel 

At  glory's  and  at  beauty's  shrine 
Is  holy  pleasure,  which  to  feel 

Was  often  thine. 

But  after  it  had  thrilled  thy  breast, 
Oh,  didst  thou  not  with  rapture  learn 

Another  joy,  worth  all  the  rest, — 
That  of  return  ? 


16 


178  FLOWERS   OF  PALESTINE. 


FLOWERS    OF    PALESTINE. 

(Written  on  seeing  a  beautiful  bouquet  of  flowers  from  the   Holy 
Land.) 

FAIR  stranger  flowers  !  I  love  your  bloom  and  green, 

For  ye  are  children  of  that  sacred  sod 
Whereon,  in  time  long  past,  the  feet  have  been 
Of  the  incarnate  God. 

And  ages  after  He  had  drank  the  cup 

Of  earthly  woe  and  joined  His  cherubim, 
Your  beauteous  forms  to  life  and  light  sprang  up, 
As  should  our  faith  in  Him. 

Ye  are  our  teachers,  flowers  !  I  may  not  stand 

Upon  the  shores  where  your  fair  sisters  blow, 
But  that  rare  loveliness  is  in  that  land 

By  your  sweet  selves  I  know. 

And,  flowers,  ye  give  me  faith, — I  cannot  stand 

Upon  the  shores  of  centuries  ago, 
But  that  our  Christ  was  then  within  the  land 
By  Christian  love  I  know. 


DOWN  BY  THE   MILL. 


179 


DOWN    BYTHE    MILL. 

DOWN  by  the  mill,  where  the  buttercups  grew, 

Giving  the  meadows  a  golden  hue, — 

Another  field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold, 

Like  that  in  England's  history  told, — 

Oft  I  wandered  when  life  was  new, 

Down  by  the  mill,  where  the  buttercups  grew. 

The  little  live  brook  ran  rippling  by, — 

Which  was  the  happiest,  it  or  I? 

The  breeze,  with  ceaseless  summer  sound, 

Like  an  airy  river  flowed  around, 

And  the  happy  woods  thrilled  through  and  through, 

Down  by  the  mill,  where  the  buttercups  grew. 

Overhead  the  sky,  like  a  bright  blue  bay, 

Shored  by  the  hill-tops,  wound  away ; 

Early  the  evening  shadows  fell 

Cool  across  that  beautiful  dell ; 

Long  on  the  grass  lay  the  morning  dew, 

Down  by  the  mill,  where  the  buttercups  grew. 

Never  the  hours  shall  be  forgot 

That  I  lived  in  that  lonely  and  lovely  spot. 


l8o  THE   RUINED  HOME. 

Oh  for  a  breath  of  the  fragrant  air 

That  I  know  is  softly  blowing  there  ! 

For  a  single  hour  of  the  peace  I  knew 

Down  by  the  mill,  where  the  buttercups  grew  ! 


THE    RUINED    HOME. 

DULL  through  the  night  its  windows  stare, 

Its  hearth  is  dark  and  cold  ; 
It  stands  forlorn,  as  if  aware 

That  it  is  lone  and  old. 

Like  lower  stars  before  it  gleam 
The  lamps  that  light  the  town ; 

Above,  the  moon  in  one  broad  beam 
Looks  in  cold  pity  down. 

Its  roof  is  clad  with  heavy  snow, 
And  through  its  broken  doors 

The  whitened  wind  has  dared  to  blow 
And  drift  the  cheerless  floors. 

Ay,  on  the  spot  where  once  the  wave 
Of  household  light  flowed  warm, 


THE   RUINED  HOME. 

A  snow-drift  like  a  winter  grave 
Is  moulded  by  the  storm. 

Silence  would  be  in  every  room 
Were  not  the  winds  at  strife ; 

They  beat  about,  and  make  the  gloom 
Seem  full  of  ghostly  life. 

With  every  movement  of  the  blast 

Old  voices  call  around ; 
Old  forms  come  thronging  from  the  past, 

Invisible  as  sound. 

But  such  sweet  presence  lacks  its  proof; 

The  time  was  long  ago 
When  summer  rain  beat  on  that  roof, 

And  happy  hearts  below. 

Such  once  were  there,  but  now  they  all 

Are  dead  or  far  away  ; 
Comfort  no  more  will  cheer  that  hall, 

Nor  pleasure  make  it  gay. 

Thus  all  that  Death  can  claim  as  his 

He  follows  to  destroy, 
And,  oh  !  how  willing  Silence  is 

To  hush  the  notes  of  joy  ! 
1 6* 


1 82  THE   RUINED  HOME. 

How  soon  the  birds  that  sweetest  sing 
Forsake  the  summer's  bowers  ! 

How  easily  the  hand  of  spring 
Is  loosened  from  her  flowers  ! 

How  soon  the  beautiful  and  bright 

Surrender  to  decay ! 
How  closely  does  the  black-winged  night 

Pursue  the  flying  day  ! 

But  never  all  the  world  at  once 

By  darkness  is  possessed  ; 
Some  half  our  planet  always  fronts 

The  sky  with  lighted  breast. 

Let  cheerful  hands  still  plant  and  build, 
Although  their  works  are  frail, 

And  time  to  overthrow  them  skilled, 
For  every  hill  and  vale 

Must  be  a  desert  or  a  home  ; 

Earth  has  no  vacant  spot, 
And  death  and  loneliness  will  come 

Where  life  and  love  are  not. 


THE   LOST  SHIP. 


THE    LOST    SHIP. 

ONCE  a  vessel  left  our  bay 

In  the  morning's  beaming; 
Oh  !  how  proud  she  moved  away, 
With  her  pennon  waving  gay 
And  her  white  sails  gleaming  ! 

'Twixt  us  and  the  sun,  each  mast 

Swayed  with  stately  motion, 
As,  before  the  west  wind,  fast 
O'er  the  harbor  bar  she  passed 
For  the  southern  ocean. 

Loudly  from  her  full  deck  she 

Sent  her  farewell  cheering, — 
Glad  that  vessel  seemed  to  be 
That  the  rough  and  open  sea 
She  once  more  was  nearing. 

From  the  low  coast's  highest  rise 

Sailors'  wives  and  daughters 
Watched  her  with  their  straining  eyes, 
Till  they  lost  her  where  the  skies 
Touched  the  tossing  waters. 


1 84  THE   LOST  SHIP. 

Thus  she  left  that  sun-bright  shore, - 

Left  it,  and  forever ; 
For  across  the  torrid  main 
To  those  waiting  ones  again 

Came  that  vessel  never. 

With  half-happy,  anxious  hearts 
They  went  forth  to  greet  her, 
When  'twas  time  for  her  to  come 
From  her  distant  wand'ring  home; 
But  they  did  not  meet  her. 

Weary  weeks  went  by  while  they 

Watched  and  hoped  and  waited, 
Looking  down  the  peaceful  bay, 
Peering  through  the  far-away, 
For  that  ship  belated. 

Hard  it  was  for  wife  and  maid 

To  accept  their  sorrow. 
For  awhile  they  fondly  said, 
"She  has  only  been  delayed  ; 
She  will  come  to-morrow. ' ' 

But  to-morrow  came,  and  still 
Saw  they  not  her  pennon  ; 


THE   LOST  SHIP. 

List'ning,  day  by  day  they  stood, 
But  their  quick  ears  never  could 
Hear  her  signal  cannon. 

How  she  perished  none  could  tell ; 

For  the  years,  slow  gliding, 
Of  the  fate  of  that  good  ship 
Nothing  learned  from  page  or  lip, 

Heard  no  tale  or  tiding. 

Had  she  struck  a  hidden  rock  ? 

Or,  with  flame  and  thunder, 
Had  a  hurricane  in  wrath 
Swept  her  from  its  fearful  path  ? — 

We  could  only  wonder. 

When  her  brave  crew  found  their  graves 

Little  has  it  mattered  ; 
Down  beneath  the  noisy  waves, 
Somewhere  in  the  ocean  caves, 

Their  white  bones  are  scattered. 

Long  within  the  sailor's  cot 

There  were  tears  and  sighing  ; 
Jsfow  the  tale  is  half  forgot, 
And  in  yonder  churchyard  spot 
Are  the  mourners  lying. 


'85 


1 86  SILENCED. 

Let  us  trust  that  sailor  band, 

Maiden,  wife,  and  mother, — 
Those  who  died  by  sea  and  land, — 
On  some  higher,  happier  strand 
See  again  each  other. 


SILENCED. 

A  DAY  is  dark  and  sad  to  me ; 

But  smiling  hope  comes  softly  near 
And  gently  whispers  in  my  ear, 

"  To-morrow  shall  be  bright  for  thee." 

To-morrow  comes ;  I  cannot  fling 
My  little  heart-aches  all  aside, 
And  so,  I  say  that  hope  has  lied, 

And  is  at  best  a  cheating  thing. 

Sorrow's  pale  mists  still  shroud  my  morns, 
And,  murmuring  to  myself,  I  say  : 
"  Sure  all  along  life's  weary  way 

The  flowers  are  fewer  than  the  thorns. 

• 

11  Our  pleasures  have  their  bitter  pain, 
Our  triumphs  end  in  our  defeat, 


"BURY  ME   IN   THE   SUNSHINE." 

Our  friendship  is  but  masted  deceit, 
And  our  whole  life  is  vain,  is  vain." 

But  shame  has  voice ;  then  if  I  but 
Do  count  my  blessings,  not  my  cares, 
Sweet  peace  comes  to  me  unawares, — 

The  wide  gate  of  complaint  is  shut. 

And  thus  I  end  with  praiseful  air 
The  lay  my  lips  began  with  sighs  : 
It  only  needs  impartial  eyes 

To  see  some  goodness  everywhere. 


"BURY    ME    IN    THE    SUNSHINE." 

(These  were  the  dying  words  of  the  late  Archbishop  Hughes.) 

BURY  me  in  the  sunshine ; 

Let  the  smiling  face  of  day, 
And  not  the  shadowy  darkness, 

Look  last  upon  my  clay. 

Bury  me  in  the  sunshine; 

Let  no  wild  tempest  frown 
Between  me  and  the  heavens 

When  to  rest  you  lay  me  down. 


1 88  "BURY  ME   IN  THE   SUNSHINE." 

Bury  me  in  the  sunshine ; 

From  the  blue  heights  of  the  skies 
Let  the  daytime's  fullest  glory 

Beam  o'er  my  sightless  eyes. 

Bury  me  in  the  sunshine  ; 

I  long  not  for  its  glow 
Because  I  fear  the  stillness 

Of  the  lonely  bed  below ; 

But  because  in  life  I  loved  it, 
And  I  would  have  it  be 

Wherever  on  earth's  bosom 
You  make  a  grave  for  me. 

Bury  me  in  the  sunshine  ; 

'Tis  the  gleam  of  heaven's  dome, 
And  it  will  light  my  spirit 

On  its  happy  journey  home. 


TEARS. 


189 


TEARS. 


LONG  ago,  long  ago, 

Ah  !  Earth  remembers  well 
From  our  mourning  mother's  eyes, 
On  the  dews  of  Paradise, 

The  first  tear  fell, — 
The  first  of  human  woe  ! 

Since  then,  since  then 

From  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  men 

How  full  has  been  the  flow  ! 

« 

ii. 

Tears  of  joy,  tears  of  pain, 

Some  as  sad  as  on  the  leaf 
Drops  the  dreary  autumn  rain, 

With  a  patient,  meek  despair ; 

Some  like  April  showers,  brief, 
When  the  opening  heavens  again 

Show  even  more  fair. 

Oh,  delicious,  balmy  grief! 
17 


190  TEARS. 

A  kind  of  bliss  thou  art. 

Thy  drops  destroy  no  bloom  ; 
Tears  that  never  outward  start,  - 
But  fall  inward  on  the  heart, — 

These  sear  and  consume. 

in. 

Alas  !  the  tears  we  see 

Are  not  the  half  that  fall. 
We  hide  our  misery, — 

God  only  knoweth  all. 
The  face  puts  on  a  smile, 
Yet  all  the  weary  while 

The  heart  tastes  gall. 

We  mask  our  deepest  woes, 
For  bitterer  tears  are  shed 
For  the  living  than  the  dead, 

That  no  one  knows. 

IV. 

O  Earth  !  there  comes  a  day 

When  a  sweet  voice  from  on  high 
Shall  beam  downward  through  the  sky, 
Fresh  from  heaven,  and  say : 
"  Weep  no  more !  weep  no  more  ! 
For  the  living  nor  the  dead  ; 


THE    WEEPING    CHILD. 

Sorrow's  long,  long  night  is  o'er, 

The  last  tear  shed!" 
But  how  many  years, 
But  how  many  tears, 

Before  those  words  are  said  ! 


191 


THE    WEEPING    CHILD. 

WHY  dost  thou  weep  ? 

What  thought  has  filled  thy  little  breast  with  pain  ? 
What  hast  thou  lost  that  thou  didst  hope  to  gain, 

That  thou  shouldst  steep 
Thy  cheek  of  rose  in  sorrow's  bitter  rain  ? 

Each  curious  toy, 

That  thou  once  handled  with  such  fond  delight, 
Lies  now  uncared  for  in  thy  tearful  sight. 

Tell  me,  my  boy, 
What  full-faced  woe  has  put  thy  peace  to  flight  ? 

Within  thy  breast 

Thy  heart  is  fluttering  like  a  prisoned  bird  ; 
Unto  its  depths  thy  feelings'  fount  seems  stirred, 

And  thou  hast  pressed 
My  hand  away,  with  comfort's  voice  unheard. 


192 


THE    WEEPING    CHILD. 


Thy  trouble  draws 

Itself  still  closer  to  thyself.     Ah,  well ! 
I  will  not  wound  a  wound  and  bid  thee  tell 

The  secret  cause 
That,  with  this  sobbing,  makes  thy  bosom  swell. 

It  is  not  much ; 

Laughter  and  shout  will  soon  again  be  thine ; 
Thy  grief  forgot,  thou  wilt  no  more  repine ; 

Yet  is  its  touch 
On  thy  young  heart  like  heavier  ones  on  mineT 

We  #re  unlike ; 

That  one  is  strong  proves  not  the  other  so, — 
The  grief  that  breaks  and  has  its  briny  flow 

Doth  never  strike 
Deep  in  the  soil  its  poisoned  fangs  of  woe. 

Then  weep,  my  child  ; 

To  thee  'tis  given  to  know  the  balm  of  tears  ; 
Thy  pain  is  not  an  inward  one  that  sears, — 

Thou  hast  e'en  smiled, 
And  to  thee  bright  once  more  the  day  appears. 


TUE   SUMMER-TIME   IS   OVER. 


THE    SUMMER-TIME    IS    OVER. 


THE  summer-time  is  over, — 

It  has  had  its  fragrant  growth, — 

The  leaf  is  on  the  clover, 

And  the  snow  is  on  them  both. 

ii. 

The  winds  are  southward  blowing, 

The  sunny  days  are  few, 
And  the  nights,  so  long  in  going, 

Bring  us  frost  instead  of  dew. 

in. 

But  though  earth  be  at  its  drearest, 
And  the  outward  light  depart, 

There's  another  summer,  dearest, — 
We  will  keep  it  in  the  heart. 

17* 


I94  FAITH  AND   LOVE. 


FAITH    AND    LOVE. 

IT  may  be,  dear  one,  ere  our  lives  are  done 

We  shall  lose  our  hearts'  sweet  mood  ; 
For  it  seems  to  be  man's  choice  to  see 

The  evil  before  the  good. 
The  kindest  word  may  be  lightly  heard, 

The  sun  of  a  smile  soon  set, 
But  the  deed  of  wrong  is  remembered  long ; 

The  sneer  is  hard  to  forget. 

Let  us  live  in  the  light  and  rule  by  the  might" 

Of  love,  for  I  think  we  can ; 
But  come  what  will,  let  us  keep  with  us  still 

A  faith  in  our  fellow-man. 
For  he  whose  heart  has  felt  the  world's  smart 

Till  he  never  can  trust  again, 
Had  better  be  dead,  in  his  cold  grave-bed, 

Than  along  with  living  men. 


THE  ANGEL    OF  SUNSET. 


THE    ANGEL    OF    SUNSET. 

BESIDE  the  sunset's  golden  gates 

An  angel  waits, 

As  through  them  every  eve  the  day  doth  go, 
And,  ere  it  treads  the  silent  lands, 

Of  it  demands 

The  story  of  its  hours  to  know; 
And,  taking  then  his  pen  of  light, 

With  it  doth  write 
(In  lines  that  will  undimmed  appear 
When  all  that  earthly  hands  have  traced 

Shall  be  effaced) 
Whate'er  of  good  or  evil  he  may  hear. 

And  when  each  glad,  each  faltering  word 

At  last  is  heard, 

And  to  the  deathless  pages  given, 
With  smiling  or  with  pitying  look 

He  shuts  the  book 
And  hands  the  record  up  to  heaven. 
Of  all  that  he  has  written  there 

'Tis  ours  to  bear 
The  glory  or  the  bitter  shame  ; 


I96  NEVER  AGAIN. 

He  is  not  merciful,  but  just ; 

Oh,  let  us  trust 
In  heaven's  high  court  it  will  not  be  the  same  ! 


NEVER    AGAIN. 

THE  clouds  by-and-by  will  break  and  fly ; 

We  shall  see  the  grass  where  the  snow-flakes  lie, 

And  the  hillsides  wave  with  grain ; 
But  the  loving  face  at  the  old  home  door, 
And  thy  fairy  form  on  the  old  home  floor, 

Never  again — never  again. 

The  buds  will  pout  and  the  blossoms  come  out ; 
We  shall  hear  the  happy  birds  singing  about, 

And  the  patter  of  summer  rain  ; 
But  thy  gentle  footsteps  coming  near, 
And  the  sweet,  sweet  voice  we  used  to  hear, 

Never  again — never  again. 

We  shall  feel  the  glow  that  the  noon-skies  throw, 
And  the  tenderer  light  that  calms  us  so 

As  the  tranquil  sunsets  wane  ; 
But  the  hand  whose  touch  was  always  soft, 


XEST-SOJVG. 

And  the  lips  whose  kiss  was  felt  so  oft, 
Never  again — never  again. 

O'er  sea  and  isle  the  summer  will  smile ; 
And  we  may,  too,  for  a  little  while, 

If  only  to  hide  our  pain  ; 
But  through  it  all  we  will  think  of  thee, 
And  the  world  will  be  as  it  used  to  be 

Never  again — never  again. 


197 


REST-SONG. 

REST  thou,  rest  thou,  weary  one  ; 
Yonder  comes  the  wakening  sun, 
But  the  morning,  bright  and  blue, 
Brings  no  work  for  thee  to  do. 
Rest  thou,  rest  thou,  weary  one, 
For  thy  work  on  earth  is  done. 

Done,  and  well  done,  faithful  heart ; 
Thine  was  no  neglected  part ; 
And  the  world  to-day  we  see 
Better  is,  because  of  thee. 


198  KEST-SONG. 

Rest  thou,  rest  thou,  weary  one, 
All  thy  work  on  earth  is  done. 

We  have  known  thee  to  complain  ; 
Not  of  aching  hands  and  brain, 
Not  of  the  burden  thou  didst  bear, 
But  that  thou  couldst  not  others'  share. 
Rest  thou,  rest  thou,  weary  one, 
For  thy  work  on  earth  is  done. 

"Rest  thou,  rest  thou,"  some  did  say, 
E'en  while  shone  thy  earthly  day. 
But  to  such  thy  sweet  lips  said : 
"  What  but  that  when  I  am  dead  ?" 
Rest  thou,  rest  thou ;  but  in  heaven 
Living  rest  shall  thee  be  given. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


PS 


Johnson  . 


213ll     The  roll-call, 
J626r 


PS 

2131* 
J626r 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


•  •     ••     •    ••     ••     II     II  II     II     I     I     III    I  I 

A  A      000033178    5 


